By the Sea
by Kokki
Summary: Éomer&Lothíriel—A bittersweet look at Éomer and Lothíriel's relationship and how it blossomed into the greatest love of all time. Chp22: Lothíriel and Éomer find themselves in the White City.
1. Wedding Night

**Author's Note:** This is a side project from my Buffy/LotR crossover. I am a big Éomer/Lothíriel fan so I couldn't resist writing this series of a short-chaptered story. It has a bittersweet feel to it, looking at the darker aspect of their relationship before their love grows.

_Co-written with a wonderful friend and fellow fanfic author, who wishes to remain anonymous at present._

**Summary: **Éomer&Lothíriel—A bittersweet look at Éomer and Lothíriel's relationship and how it blossomed into the greatest love of all time. The wedding night can be extremely awkward, particularly if your marriage was arranged for a political alliance.

**Warning:** Rated accordingly for adult themes.

**Disclaimer: **I claim no rights to _The Lord of the Rings_, which belongs to J.R.R Tolkien.

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**By the Sea.**

Chapter One: Wedding Night.

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The room was dim and far too cold for the thin creamy shift she donned. She could faintly hear the sound of the roaring sea waves crashing against the cliffs and sandy shores of her homeland; but this night, the sound brought no comfort to her frayed nerves.

Lothíriel absently ran her hands along the raised skin of her bare arms, shivering at the chill that seemed to seep into the marrow of her bones as she waited.

By nature she was not a patient woman; at least, that is what her father had constantly told her when she was younger.

But on this evening she wished with all her heart that her newly wedded husband would take his time in arriving. The celebrations of their wedding in Dol Amroth had occurred throughout the day, much to her dismay. And it had been a long and arduous affair, one that had finally taken its' toll upon her as the evening slowly and painfully drew to an end.

This was only the beginning—a formal ceremony still had to be held in Rohan, the home of her husband. She sincerely hoped that it was held with less pomp and propriety than the ceremony that had taken place today.

During the evening, he had seen the weariness in her eyes and the apprehension that clouded the rims of her deep blue orbs—but he had not thought to comment about it. He had not thought to reassure her. Instead, he remained in the background and had allowed her to bear the brunt of the evening alone, smiling and greeting guests with false gusto; a selfish thing to do on his part.

From what she came to know about him in their short time together, Lothíriel had found the Rohan King cold and aloof... Completely distant to the world that surrounded him. He was a warrior and she understood this. Her father was also a warrior, as well as a Royal, but he did not possess the hardened glint that constantly flashed within her husband's brown eyes... And that frightened her deeply. It was as though the heavy burden that sat on his shoulders had manifested and darkened into a sinister ebony cloud that would forever shroud his golden head.

The War of the Ring seemed to have had a hard impact upon the newly crowned King of Rohan.

His entire demeanour seemed to repress her in someway.

She had always been light-hearted person, full of spirit and joy, but she knew—she knew that once she resided in Rohan with her husband, she would change for all eternity. She would lose herself and become an unrecognisable ghost like him... And in the end not even her own father would be able to discern her haggard form.

The thought was chilling and only served to dishearten her further.

Lothíriel had not wanted to marry the Rohan King.

Her father had insisted and, as was expected of a good daughter, she acquiesced because she loved him and her people of Dol Amroth dearly; she could not bear his disappointment. Their country would benefit from the newly forged ties with Rohan and an alliance in the form of a marriage was the only reasonable manner in which the bond between the two estranged countries could be formed; that was the excuse she had been given. She had asked her father whose idea it was to create the political alliance through marriage and he had simply chuckled at her and said that she had caught the fancy of the Rohan King.

It was a pity that she did not return the King's sentiments.

However, she still could not believe her fathers words. The King of Rohan behaved in rather brutish manner whenever he was in her presence and his eyes—his eyes were devoid of any and all emotion. She could not fathom how she could have captured his attention. Although she desperately wished she had not...

Her eyelashes fluttered against her cheeks at the cool breeze that danced through the open windows of the room, brushing past the billowing gauze curtains that draped majestically to the floor. The smell of the salty sea-water permeated the air around her, clinging in small rivulets as moisture against the stone walls. She inhaled the smell of the salt gratefully.

She was going to miss her home by the sea.

The sudden sound of the door opening alerted her to his presence. As she sat upon the centre of the large and frivolously decorated bed, facing away from the doorway, she listened to her husband quietly enter the room and shut the door behind him. He shuffled around briefly and she could distinctly hear the rustle of clothing as he removed his ceremonial garb.

Her eyelids drooped down over her sea-blue eyes, covering her sight of the dim room in the comfort of darkness as she felt the right side of the bed dip under his weight.

The hollow weight in her stomach grew as she felt his calloused hand brush the river of her curled obsidian locks away from her right shoulder to the left. Every second that passed seemed like an eternity for her, chipping away at her soul with every touch of his rough fingers upon the smooth flesh of her neck and shoulders.

She squeezed her eyes shut and desperately tried not to shy away from his hand, which was soon replaced by the velvety touch of his lips against her shoulder. She trembled, knowing that he had misinterpreted her disgust for pleasure.

"Lothíriel," he finally whispered into the shell of her right ear, "My beautiful wife..."

The sickening sensation twisted deeply within her gut as he trailed kisses along the column of her exposed neck, to the lobe of her ear. With a throaty growl he quickly turned her around to face him and pinned her against the soft bed beneath him. Her legs opened involuntarily to accommodate his large form between the creamy expanse of her thighs.

He was huge compared to her slight frame. The tautly formed muscles of his arms tightened as he effortlessly held himself above her, making sure that he did not crush her tiny form with his seasoned warrior weight.

"Look at me."

The King of Rohan's request was simple, but she could not bring herself to open her eyes.

"Lothíriel," he coerced softly, "Will you not look upon your husband?"

At his gentle words she slowly opened her eyes, only to find them gazing into the endless expanse of his warm brown orbs. She found herself drowning in their infinite depths.

Gone was the cold expression that continually haunted his face, gone was the hardened glint that forever seemed to burn within his eyes. At that moment, the warmth he showed her in his gaze somewhat eased her bruised spirit.

He was comely—incredibly handsome in fact, with his shoulder-length golden hair and rugged yet manly features that added to the appeal of his muscled, battle-weary body. At his nearness, she could see that his brown eyes were flecked with green... She had never denied his handsome looks, but the stony features of his face always seemed to detract from the boyish charm he was exuding at present.

Now, with his barriers lowered she saw the man beneath the stern countenance... A man that she could _possibly _learn to fall in love with, given the time. Perhaps all was not lost to her.

"I love you," he breathed almost to himself as he peered into her deep blue eyes.

Lothíriel froze at the three words that quietly escaped through the crevice of his parted lips. She could not believe them. He knew nothing about her! How in _Arda _could he claim to love her! She gazed up at him, displaying the confusion she felt as she searched his rich brown eyes for any sign of deceit.

She found none.

"My lord?"

He sighed, closing his eyes and smiling slightly as he lowered his forehead to hers. "I have loved you from the very first moment I laid eyes upon you in Minas Tirith, Lothíriel."

"But... You do not know me," she murmured against his cheek, wishing that he would remove his weight from her body. It was unsettling to have him pressed so intimately against her, especially since she knew that she felt nothing for the Rohan King.

"I do," he reassured, "I watched you from afar; your bright eyes and beautiful smile soothed my broken heart like a healing balm. It is because of you that I found solace from the haunting dreams of battle and death that plagued me during the long, empty nights," he paused, looking at her once more. "When I approached your father about our betrothal, I thought that he would refuse. I thought that _you_ would refuse me... It gladdens me that you did not."

The Princess of Dol Amroth digested her new husband's words carefully. "You mean... I had the choice to say no?" She shifted slightly under his weight as he kept her pinned to the bed.

"Yes, but you accepted. Nothing could have made me happier than this day."

Her mouth ran dry.

She could have refused!

But her father insisted that she marry the Rohan King... O, had she known about the choice she would have never agreed to the arrangement. But how could she let her husband know that she had never wished for their union in the first place? It would be a disaster and, now that she knew of his love, it would break his heart. She was not so cold-hearted as to inform him of her true feelings. What purpose would it serve now? Their were wed and her fate had been decided and sealed.

With a wan and humourless smile, she spoke, "I am glad that you are happy, my lord."

He chuckled, "There is no need for such formality now, Lothíriel. I wish for you to call me Éomer, it would please me greatly."

The princess nodded slowly, "As you wish... Éomer."

With the barest of smiles, he lowered his head to hers once more as the expression on his face sobered, "I have been wanting to do this all day."

Before Lothíriel could form a response, Éomer allowed his soft lips to gently brush across hers.

Without preamble, his lips slanted down upon her own as he slowly plunged his tongue deep into her mouth. Her startled gasp was drowned out by the pounding of his heart against her rib-cage as his lips and mouth moved accordingly, forming their own sacred rythm as he bound them together with the intimate gesture.

Her mind grew blank as his large hand deftly brushed her side, trailing up her thigh whilst he pushed the cloth of her shift upwards to bare her legs. She shivered at the cool breeze that blew upon her uncovered thighs. His warm moist tongue roved the corners of her mouth, causing her to arch and moan involuntarily.

She thought that she could allow him to use her for this one night, but it was proving difficult.

Lothíriel wanted to push him away... She was not ready for this—she was not ready to allow this man, whom she hardly knew, the pleasure of her body. Perhaps in time she would enjoy his gentle, passion-induced kisses, but could she allow it for this one night?

No, she could not.

With determination, she tore her lips away and placed her fingers upon his mouth as he moved to kiss her again.

He looked down at her quizzically.

Desperately, she thought of her only excuse, "Forgive me, my lo—Éomer... This day has been taxing and I fear that I have worn myself out..." She trailed off, hoping that he would understand her silent plea.

Éomer frowned slightly before offering a gentle smile. "You tease me, my wife."

Lothíriel paled under his intense gaze. Her mouth moved to speak but no sound would come out. The man was absolutely blind to her true feelings.

The King of Rohan took her silence as an affirmation of his comment. With a small grin, he resumed his previous course and slowly began to divest her body of the shift that clung to her delicate, golden curves.

Her stormy blue eyes grew dim as she focused on the ceiling beyond his shoulder. She remained still as her husband's gentle yet urgent kisses began to fade away, until she could no longer feel them upon her skin.

The pain was a distant throb inside her body as he began to move above and within her. With each gentle stroke, the Princess of Dol Amroth felt herself falling—falling into an endless abyss that seemed to welcome her with open arms.

She turned her head absently to the open window of the room where the moon's pale beams shone through like a beacon in the dark. And before she drowned completely, her last thought was of her home by the sea.

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**Added Notes: **I know it's a tad depressing, but I promise that Lothíriel does grow to love him. You will see how that will come about in upcoming chapters. As for Éomer, he is blind towards her true feelings... For the moment.

I hope you enjoyed this first chapter.


	2. The Morning After

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**By the Sea.**

Chapter Two: The Morning After

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Morning came far too soon for her liking.

In the end the piercing shrieks of the white gulls pulled her away from the comfortable embrace of her slumber. Forcing her eyes to open, Lothíriel clenched her jaw as she found herself within the confines of her husband's muscular arms, her naked body pressed tightly against his. He had insisted on holding her throughout the night and how she managed to fall asleep in his arms was still a mystery to her.

The Princess of Dol Amroth had not allowed herself to feel his gentle caresses during their night of passionless love-making. If she had done, she would have lost all semblance of herself—she would have helplessly broken down there and then, with the King of Rohan none the wiser. Instead, her mind had wandered and drifted away to recall the happier times of her childhood, the times when she would play upon the sandy shores beside her home with reckless abandon. Those days had been filled with laughter and joy—she knew that the future of her life would not be filled with such happiness and hope.

The hollow chasm in her heart trembled as she glanced down at her husband's serene features, still framed within a deep sleep.

The previous night, she had tried to avoid his kisses and roaming hands subtly by speaking of her fatigue... But he did not understand her reticence towards his touch. And she, foolishly, offered no further refusal towards his ministrations as it would have been futile to decline his persistent gestures. After all, tradition dictated that a newly married bride and groom must consummate their marriage for the ceremonial vows to be sealed. They had done this, and Lothíriel desperately hoped that he would not seek her out again.

But from the King's endearing words during the night, as his body remained in the throes of his own pleasure, she knew that that would not be the case; he would continue to seek her out... Until he grew bored of her unmoving form beneath him, or if she refused him.

She would have to endure his continued advances for the rest of her life, always seeking to offer him pleasure but receiving none in return. Of course he had tried to pleasure her needs, it was his duty as a good husband and lover, but she had felt nothing... Absolutely _nothing_.

With a determined purpose, she gently extracted herself from his bulky arms and rose to greet the daunting new day.

The lancing pain between her legs did not go unnoticed as she made her way to the ridiculously large dresser in the corner of the extravagantly decorated room.

Lothíriel could feel her heart freeze and harden as she began the arduous task of dressing herself in the simple blue gown that had been laid out for her. Her cold blue eyes refused to look down between her legs to see the damage that had been inflicted. She knew that her husband had not meant to cause her pain; he had tried his best to make her as comfortable as possible—tried his best to goad some sort of impassioned response from her.

But she had been silent, learning that it was best not to encourage him further. And when he finally moved away from her listless form after he had received his own satisfaction, she could not help but notice the sliver of regret and pain that lingered within his honeyed brown eyes at the lack of enthusiasm on her part.

It was because of his pain that she felt disgusted with herself.

She was lying to him.

By allowing the Rohan King to be intimate with her, she was giving him false impressions about her feelings towards him—and for that, she felt absolutely rotten. She believed whole-heatedly that she did not deserve his good heart and kind words; she was making a mockery of the proud warrior King. Sighing, Lothíriel continued to silently lace the ties of her blue gown behind her back.

Completely preoccupied within her thoughts, she started with shock as she felt her husband's warm hands remove her fingers from the delicate laces. As her arms came to rest at her sides, she looked up at the dresser in front of her and caught his eye in the rounded mirror as he stood behind her.

He smiled at her with hesitance.

She nodded her head in greeting, offering a watery smile in return as he proceeded to tie the laces of her dress together.

"Forgive me," she heard from behind, his baritone voice strong against the fragile morning.

Her brow dipped into a small frown. "For what, Éomer?"

"For last night," he continued softly, "You said that you were tired and I did not know the truth of your words until—until after we had... I am sorry if I forced you to exert yourself, it was not my intention."

O, by Ilúvatar's grace! How could one man be so thoughtful!

Lothíriel desperately wanted to love him; she did! But she couldn't... And she did not know why. The King of Rohan may have been blind towards her true feelings, but that did not hinder his caring spirit. And to think that she had called him emotionless and brutish! It made her feel worse than before. She would have preferred being married to an unfeeling, ungenerous man than this newly discovered kind-hearted King that loved her dearly, but received nothing in return.

Forcing herself to smile at him, their eyes locked once more in the mirror. "Do not apologise, Éomer. I—I may have been tired but you could not have known."

"You told me, Lothíriel," the King of Rohan admonished gravely, his hands lingering upon her waist, "You told me, but I did not listen to the truth of your words. I thought that you were jesting."

Lothíriel kept the brittle smile plastered on her face as she turned around to face him, "It is done, and I do not resent you for it. Perhaps in the future you will heed my words, my good King," she teased lightly, bringing a ghostly smile upon his face before his demeanour changed once more.

Frowning, Éomer brushed his fingers across her slanted cheekbone. "Are you well, Lothíriel? You are far too pale," the guilty expression on his face tugged at her heart.

"You worry too much," she took his hand away from her face and held it firmly to her chest.

He smiled thoughtfully, "That is what my sister says."

"Then your sister is correct, for I am never wrong in my observations."

Éomer laughed, a loud and charming sound that pleased her greatly. If she could not love him, the least she could do was make him happy. It would not do to have two miserable people forced into marriage. She would have to make the best of it... That is, until he tried to bed her once again. Then, she did not know if she could keep up the pretence of her good humour.

The thought caused the smile to slip briefly from her face.

"Where were you going?"

"Hm?" Lothíriel looked up, to find him gazing at her with concern.

"Where were you going?" Éomer repeated patiently.

His words finally registered within her mind, "Down to the shore to watch the sunrise," she replied absently, turning her head to look at a pair of doors that would lead her to the room's private balcony.

"Unescorted?"

His incredulity was not lost upon her. "It is quite safe here," she assured, slightly peeved.

"Would you mind if I accompanied you?"

Lothíriel grit her teeth, cursing herself for telling the truth. Her morning walks upon the sandy shores of her home was a private affair. From the young age of seven, she had not allowed anyone to join her; it was the single moment in her day when she could lose herself and pretend that she was free—free from the restraints of her family heritage, free from the pampering she received as a Princess. And now... Her husband wished to join her.

There was nothing sacred left.

But she could not deny him. And so, she nodded and waited patiently for him to dress himself appropriately as she donned her matching blue slippers. Once attired, they silently made their way to the open doors of the balcony.

As he took her hand and placed it into the crook of his elbow, Lothíriel guided her husband down the stone steps that adjoined onto their private balcony. Each level of steps criss-crossed down to the white-sand beach that lay below. Armoured guards were standing stoically on every level as they descended the large steps, bowing respectfully as the King and his new bride passed. She smiled at the familiar faces, recognising some from her childhood.

"Do you often rise this early?"

Éomer's voice caught her off guard.

She pondered the question as they continued their leisurely pace, "Not usually. I am rather ill-favoured in the morning, which is why my father and brothers liken me to a hungry warg with no teeth; it is not often that I rise early."

The King of Rohan quietly chuckled at her description, "But you were delightful in your behaviour to me this morning! I cannot imagine you in the guise of a warg."

With an unladylike snort, she replied, "I would not dismiss my family's words so soon Éomer-King. There is a fair amount of truth in them."

"Well... Then I hope that you do not decide to feast upon me in the morning, for if you do, Rohan will be without a King and you will be without a husband."

The frivolous turn of their conversation was pleasing to Lothíriel. During their betrothal, she had only spent a handful of hours with him, and in those moments he had been dispassionate and severely droll. But at the time of their meetings, one or more of his advisor's had always been present and she deduced that it must have made him uncomfortable to speak so intimately with others watching.

However, once in private, it seemed that her husband exuded a wonderful charm and wit, much to her surprise.

She showed her approval of his character by chuckling dryly, "Indeed, you shall have to tread carefully, my lord. We would not want the citizens of Rohan in an uproar; I hear that they are quite protective of their Royal family and would most likely hunt me down." They shared another quiet laugh before they reached the ground.

Walking down the winding grassy paths, the couple remained silent until the sight of white sand greeted them.

Lothíriel sighed quietly. She would much rather have been on her own to greet the dawning day... But alas, she had to share this morning with her new husband. She wondered if she would be afforded such a luxury once they were Rohan. Somehow, she did not think that her husband would allow her to roam the grassy planes of his land without an escort. And even then, she did not think he would be too pleased to have her gallivanting about.

It was simply another reason for her to despise their arranged marriage.

Arm in arm, they quietly strolled along the sandy white shores, content to listen to the churning waves of the sapphire blue sea as it was tossed about by the gentle breeze.

Lothíriel spied a large rock, jutting out from the sand at an angle.

Unconsciously, she led Éomer towards the smooth rock she had claimed as her own many years ago. There was enough space for them to sit down, as she was quite small compared to his broad body. She was not unaware that he completely dwarfed her in every aspect of size and strength. This thought should have brought comfort to her as it solidified her safety; it did nothing but make her more nervous.

Without speaking, the couple watched the first rays of the sun gently peak out from beyond the horizon. They watched the majestic star slowly climb and make it's journey upwards, brightening the day with it's comforting beams of joyous light.

"Dol Amroth is beautiful," he said quietly, his eyes never leaving the spectacle before him as he broke the silence between them.

"It is," Lothíriel murmured wistfully.

Éomer turned to look at her profile, watching intently as the morning rays of the sun gently kissed her tanned skin, igniting the warmth of her raven locks. "I am loathe to take you away from your home," he admitted softly.

She blinked heavily but did not look at him, "I am sure Rohan is just as beautiful."

"It is," the King agreed, "And though I admit that Dol Amroth is spectacular, no place can compare to one's homeland."

_Wise words_, she mused to herself silently.

Bringing her knees to her chest as they sat side by side, she placed her chin upon her supported arms and inhaled the salty air with regret, "My heart will forever belong to the sea," she whispered, blind to the slight darkening of her husband's features. "My home will always be beside the sea... Just as your home and heart belongs in Rohan, with your horses."

He made a small sound of agreement.

When he spoke again, his voice was strained and distant, "Lothíriel... Will you be happy to leave Dol Amroth and join me in Rohan? You must speak the truth, do not be afraid."

The King of Rohan was full was great surprises, and quite perceptive when he wished to be. "Do not worry yourself, my lord. We are wed and paths that you will tread, are my own as well."

Her answer had not satisfied him. "You have avoided the question," he muttered wryly.

"Nay, I will not be happy to leave," she sighed, looking at his worried countenance, "But if Rohan is as beautiful as you say it is, then I shall be happy to reside there... By your side." Lothíriel had answered as truthfully as she could.

Éomer seemed satisfied with her response and without another word, he wound his arm around her waist and pulled her close against his side. She stiffened slightly under his touch, but allowed him to pull her close. He was unaware of her reaction.

The contents of her stomach swirled and churned like a raging sea as he placed a gentle kiss upon the crown of her head. She buried her face against his chest, cringing away from his display of affection. Her action was misinterpreted as the King of Rohan squeezed her closer than before.

Éomer tipped her head back and claimed her pouted ruby lips in a fervent yet gentle kiss. Lothíriel bit back a groan of frustration as his tongue licked her own. Surely he would not initiate such a private act upon this public shore, in view of everyone! Even with all of his charm, it did not excuse his uncouth and discourteous behaviour at present.

Placing her hands upon his chest, she pushed him away and released her lips from their crushing prison. He sent her a look of confusion, and she forced herself to speak with good humour, "It would not be wise," she reprimanded lightly, "Many will soon awaken and traverse these shores; you do not want their hungry eyes upon us, do you?"

He had the grace to look ashamed and in his favour, his ears reddened at the prospect of being caught by the prying eyes of strangers. Clearing his throat, he rose from the rock and pulled her with him. "You are right," he said stoutly. "Come, let us return to our chambers and fill our stomachs."

His words lacked grace and refinement, but she forgave him for his shortcomings. With a strained smile, she allowed herself to be led back to their room.

She wondered how she would survive their oppressive marriage. It would be a miracle if she did.

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**Added Notes:** Next chapter, Lothíriel and Éomer travel to Rohan to begin their life together as King and Queen. Cracks start to show in their marriage and Éomer begins to suspect his wife's true feelings as she avoids his touch like the plague... I promise it will get better though!

Thanks to _Loti, Sarah _and _fandun (no, I don't mind at all!), _for reviewing! I really appreciate your opinions.


	3. New Acquaintance

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**By the Sea.**

Chapter Three: New Acquaintance

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The reflection of the woman staring back at her was unrecognisable. The corners of her mouth twitched as she gazed at herself curiously, turning and twirling in front of the mirror like an excited child.

Yards of cream satin and silk draped down her curved form as though she had been bathed and swaddled in pale moonbeams and starlight. The embroidered pearls and emerald jewels in the brocade of her dress glinted merrily against the warm candlelight of the silent room, adding to the majestic beauty of the dress she wore. Her eyes caught sight of the white garlands that had been woven within the loose curls of her hair, mirroring the image of twinkling stars against the ebony blanket of a midnight sky; they smelled divine.

Lothíriel could not believe that it was her reflection she was looking at. She was not vain by nature, but for that moment, she truly felt pleased with her appearance—she felt beautiful.

The dress, made from Elvish fabric had been a gift from her husband, given to him by King Elessar and Queen Arwen Undómiel as a silent blessing for the newly bound couple. When Éomer presented the dress to her, she had been too awe-struck to speak any words of thanks. He had simply smiled, nodded and left the room so that she could prepare for the evening celebration that marked her marriage to the King of Rohan.

"Lothíriel?"

She turned at the sound of her husband's stunned voice, coming from the doorway of their chambers. Blushing profusely, she faced him with a shy smile tugging at her lips, that surprised her greatly.

"Do you approve?"

He nodded dumbly at her question, "You look... Stunning."

Biting her lip, she turned back to the mirror, "What will your people think?"

Éomer strode into the room purposefully and came to stand beside her as she continued to stare at her reflection. "They will think that I am the luckiest man in Arda."

Lothíriel almost winced at his words. She should have known that he would speak in such a generous fashion. There was never a moment when her husband did not compliment her.

Earlier in the day, they had been bound according to the laws and customs of Rohan. The morning had been bright and cheerful, but for Lothíriel, the day was simply another reminder that she was inextricably bound to a man she did not love—and that she would be his for the rest of her life. Her husband had been correct; Rohan was a beautiful country but that did not detract from the heavy heart she carried within her breast during the ceremony.

She had seen much of his lands as they journeyed towards Edoras; the green fields and rolling hills were breathtaking to behold but she found her heart constricting at the sight of the grassy ground and flat plains—this country would be her home from this day forward... And that thought was utterly frightening.

As amazing as Rohan was, it held no candle to the sea and, as she spoke her vows, she yearned to feel the minuscule grains of sand between her toes and hear the roaring waves of the sea crashing against the white cliffs of her home...

She blinked as Éomer suddenly grasped her arm and pulled her close into an embrace, lowering his head to place a gentle kiss upon her forehead.

Lothíriel swallowed the hardened lump in her throat, knowing that she did not deserve his affections, but continued to receive them nonetheless. Without waiting or asking for permission, he caught her lips and kissed her deeply, his mouth lingering upon hers as he tasted her with such ardent fervour that it made her head spin.

A crystal tear formed with the corner of her eye, threatening to spill from it's lidded cage.

"What is this? Why do you cry?" He asked worriedly as he pulled away, touching his calloused finger to her eye so that he could brush away the pearled tear.

Shaking her head, Lothíriel backed away from his enveloping arms. "Nothing."

The dubious expression on his face did not disappear, "You are lying to me," his voice was stern yet gentle. She wondered how he had perfected such a contrasting mix of emotions, "Are you unhappy with something?"

So much weight lay in his question and so much pain would be garnered if she told him the truth. Instead, she opted to misguide him. "I am simply overwhelmed by this day; it has been extremely tiring."

The Rohan King nodded slowly at her words, "Do you wish to forgo the feast? I am sure that the guests will understand your exhaustion."

An appalled expression marred her youthful face, "Nay, I could not do that! So much time and preparation has been gone into these festivities, it would not serve me well to miss them. I am sure the merry-making will liven my mood." Why did he have to be so thoughtful? Lothíriel cursed his gentle manners and the love he generously bestowed upon her. She would have called him love's fool, had she not pitied him so greatly.

"As you wish," Éomer reluctantly conceded. He paused before reaching down to his side. "Here," Lothíriel stared at her husband solemnly as he pulled a velvet pouch from the holder on his belt. "This is for you."

She blinked in confusion as he held out the pouch to her. Taking it from his outstretched palm, she weighed the object and looked at the Rohan King with suspicion. "What is it?"

He smiled encouragingly, "Open it and see."

Pulling the white cords, she kept one eye trained on his unmoving form as she reached in and pulled out the contents. Lothíriel's breath caught in her throat as she gazed at the tear-dropped emerald that sat in the centre of her palm, inlaid with glittering diamonds around the circumference of the deep green jewel. The mithril chain of the necklace glinted against the candlelight, offering her promises of untold fortune and misplaced love.

"It is spectacular," she murmured, inspecting the delicate lines of the necklace carefully.

"Then it shall be yours. It is my gift to you."

Her head snapped up at his words. The Princess of Dol Amroth could not help but gape at her husband, "Gift?" She parroted.

Éomer held back a grin at her evident surprise, "Yes, a gift... For you."

"But why?"

He frowned slightly, "You do not like it?"

"Nay, I do—very much so!"

The Rohan King breathed a sigh of relief before offering an explanation, "It is an age old tradition of Rohan for the bride and groom to trade gifts on the eve of their wedding feast. That necklace you hold was given to my mother on her wedding day; a present from my father. I thought that it would be fitting if I gave you this gift on my behalf."

Lothíriel stared thoughtfully at the necklace entwined between her fingers, "You said _trade_, but I do not have anything to give to you," she said in a small voice.

"There is but one thing that I wish from you," Éomer said lowly, taking the necklace from her hand to place it around her neck. Assisting him with the task, Lothíriel pulled her wavy locks away so that he could easily clasp the piece of jewellery around her neck. She shivered as she felt his warm breath tickle her temple before he kissed the area in warm tenderness.

"And what is that?" She asked, returning her hair to its' rightful place as he pulled back.

His sturdy warrior hands grasped her shoulders, forcing her to look deep into his luke-warm eyes. "I wish to see you smile."

Fluttering her lashes, Lothíriel looked down at the emerald pendant that sat at the base of her throat. Could she smile for him? How much of it would be real and how much would be forced? The princess sincerely wished that he would not dote upon her... It made things all the more difficult to tolerate. Unconsciously, she fingered the precious stone as her husband's rough hands moved to cradle her cheeks.

"Lothíriel?"

Taking a deep breath, she slowly raised her eyes and offered her spouse a hesitant smile. It was the best she could do at present. "Thank you for the necklace. It is truly beautiful," she spoke with honesty in her words. She was grateful for his generosity; she would be loathe to throw it back in his face.

The King of Rohan beamed from the pleasure her words wrought. "It is not as beautiful as your smile," he whispered before sneaking in a kiss to her cheek. His lips felt warm and moist, sending a strange tingle through the bone of her cheek. It was not all that unpleasant, and the gesture seemed far to innocent for a man of his strength and calibre.

Silently, Éomer offered Lothíriel his arm and together they made their way to the golden hall of Meduseld without speaking another word.

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The sound of music, mirth and merry-making of their esteemed guests had done nothing to alleviate the nervous knot that had been growing within Lothíriel's stomach throughout the evening. The thought of returning to bed with her husband continually plagued her thoughts.

However, once they had entered the Golden Hall, Éomer's cold and aloof countenance had appeared with a vengeance and all too soon, she was left all alone to accept the formal well-wishing and congratulations of their guests with a fake smile plastered to her face; she was alone—again. And not even the boisterous antics of her brothers served to lighten her mood. Éomer's frigidity throughout the evening had been extremely unnerving. The double side to his personality was frustrating and utterly vexing.

As the evening drew to a close, his unyielding manner had begun to grate on her nerves. She wished that he would choose what he wanted to be; a cold, unfeeling King or the endearing man that he was to her behind closed doors. Lothíriel was not surprised to learn that she preferred the latter. Although, it was too soon in their marriage for her to be picking out his many faults, it seemed that she was doomed to her fate for the rest of her living days.

Which was one of the reasons she was now brooding in the windy courtyard outside the Golden Hall, gazing at the clouded sky, rather than enjoying herself inside with the other guests.

"My lady?"

Lothíriel was startled from her thoughts by the unfamiliar voice. Turning her head, she found herself looking upon an older man with golden hair, hidden in the shadows of the night. "You startled me," she accused softly.

The man stepped out of the shadows and bowed politely. He was tall and broad, much like Éomer and the other warriors of Rohan. The man's eyes were green and they flashed dangerously in the pale moonlight, alerting her to his strength of character and charming personality. Her eyes roved the contours of his face, taking in his proud jaw and stubborn nose that was slightly crooked—perhaps a reminder from one of the many battles that he had fought in. He was old, but not too old... And Lothíriel found him somewhat attractive. But she felt that her husband's brown eyes were a tad more appealing than this man's jade green orbs, for they seemed to hypnotise draw her in with their perceptiveness.

"Forgive me, my lady. It was not my intention to frighten you," the stranger said.

Lothíriel's jaw twitched as she gazed up at the inky black sky once more, "I said that you startled me, not frightened."

The golden-haired man laughed, his green eyes twinkling with respect. "I see that my lady has a way with words."

"I am not your lady," she retorted.

"Nay, you are Rohan's lady, and it's Queen."

"What is you name?" Lothíriel asked as he came to stand beside her, to look at the open plains at the base of Edoras.

"I am Elfhelm, Marshal of the East-mark," he replied softly, bowing at her once more.

"You needn't do that," the princess pointed out dryly.

"Do what?"

"Bow after every sentence."

Elfhelm chuckled in amusement, "My apologies, it is not everyday that I am in the presence of a Princess and Queen."

She shot him an annoyed glare, "You are teasing me."

"Perhaps so," the mischievous smile upon his face did not fade as she looked at him from beneath her lashes.

"Elfhelm..." Lothíriel spoke his name thoughtfully, "I have heard your name before."

"You have?" The Marshal voiced, clearly surprised.

"Yes... Are you a close consort to Éomer?"

"I have known him since he was a young lad. But I fear that we have not been formally introduced as of yet. It appears that Éomer has been rather forgetful of this old man."

"Ah," Lothíriel shivered as another cool breeze washed over. "You do not look old, yet you speak of him as younger sibling or nephew."

"I am not yet forty," Elfhelm confirmed, "But I am dangerously close."

She laughed, "Then you are much older than your lord-king!"

"Age cannot contend with wisdom, my lady, and I am afraid that Éomer surpasses me in that aspect." The Marshal paused, looking at her profile as they stood shoulder to shoulder. "May I ask why the lady is standing out here in the cold with an ageing man, rather than inside with her husband, enjoying the festivities?"

Lothíriel chewed her bottom lip nervously, "It was growing far too stuffy," she finally said.

Elfhelm narrowed his eyes but did not speak his thoughts, "I see... Why do I sense that there is more beneath your words?"

"You are far too bold, Lord Elfhelm," Lothíriel warned.

"Forgive me," he replied automatically, schooling his features into the epitome of coolness.

She sighed, "Nay, I am to blame. It seems that I have worn myself out."

Elfhelm hesitated, uncertain as to what he should say. "Would you like me to escort you back to your chambers? I will have a message sent to my lord-king."

The Princess of Dol Amroth pondered his offer before shaking her head. "I shall retire by myself, please see to it that Éomer has been informed about my absence."

The Marshal of the East-mark acquiesced, watching quietly as his old friend's wife and Queen of Rohan retreated her steps into the shadows.

Her poignant words belied the sadness that lay deep within her stormy blue eyes... Elfhelm was intrigued by the woman that he would now call his Queen—far too intrigued for his own good. The rumours had been correct; she was absolutely beautiful with her raven hair and deep blue eyes, and she was incredibly witty.

He could see how his friend and king had fallen in love with her... It was all too easy for a man to lose himself within her _charming _jibes.

Elfhelm looked forward to speaking with the new Queen once again. But if he knew what was best for him, he would endeavour to keep their meetings brief and formal, lest he too fell under her alluring spell.

That road would only lead him to heartache, for she belonged to another—more specifically, Éomer, his dear friend and king.

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**Added Notes: **Oh dear me, this chapter has not gone to plan! Forgive me, but things will _hopefully_ pick up in the next chapter. I have the general chapter-plot written, I just need to type up the words so please bear with me! I wasn't planning on making this a long story... But I will wait to hear your opinions on this matter.

Thanks to everyone that reviewed!


	4. Night's Revelation

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**By the Sea.**

Chapter Four: Night's Revelation.

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He was having a nightmare.

As his muffled moans and cries pierced through the oppressive night, she found herself waking from her light slumber. The King of Rohan tossed and turned on the other side of the large bed, shrouded in the shadow of the darkened room. And as she shifted closer to his heated body, Lothíriel could barely see the thin film of sweat that covered his brow and bare chest. His face was contorted into a mask of pain that spoke of old wounds, shattered hearts and forgotten grievances.

The strings of her own heart tugged as the strong, brave warrior clung to his pillow, whimpering and growling alternately. Her non-existent feelings for the Rohan King were disregarded as she reached out to cup his tear-stained cheek within her small palm.

"Éomer?" Her voice was soft, like the flutter of a butterfly's wings against the cold night.

He did not stir.

Licking her dried lips, Lothíriel moved closer to lie beside her husband. She grasped his trembling shoulder as she leaned over his shivering form and shook him vigorously, fearing that he would never pull himself from the harsh nightmare that clutched his heart.

"Éomer! You must wake up!"

She gasped as Éomer snarled and threw her back onto the bed, straddling her as his hand fisted in the air, ready to hit her face. His thick, battle-worn fingers curled around her fragile neck and squeezed dangerously.

Éomer's brown eyes glinted furiously before the anger slowly receded, only to be replaced by a mist of horror at the realisation of his position. "Lothíriel?" Scrambling off her quivering form, he watched her sit up and clutch her throat as she coughed. "What happened? Are you all right?" He asked timidly, eyeing her neck with guilt as she rubbed the thin column to ease the pain.

"You were having a bad dream," she rasped, looking at him with concern.

"F-forgive me, I—I thought you were the enemy... I—Are you well? Did I hurt you?"

Lothíriel held up her hand, "It is all right, I shall be fine."

Éomer reached out and traced the base of her neck, wincing as he noted the odd colouring of her skin. She took his hand and pulled it away from her injury. "I am fine... What were you dreaming about?" She asked quietly, holding his hand in her lap as he slumped back to lay on the bed.

"Death..." he whispered, "I dreamed of death and a sea of blood; I dreamt of my uncle and that I was being attacked from all sides and I could not save myself... I could not save him or anyone else."

Following his own manner, Lothíriel stretched down beside her husband and allowed him to gather her into his muscled arms. As her cheek pressed against his wildly beating heart, she breathed in the intoxicating scent of sweat combined with spicy soap.

The King of Rohan held his wife tightly to his naked chest, his breath coming in hard gasps as he tried to regain control of his body. She was heart-broken for her husband; to know that he had witnessed the same horror, the same death and destruction as her own father and brothers, made her want to weep for him. Like her brothers, his innocence towards life had been lost many years ago—ravaged by the sight of bloody corpses upon stricken fields.

He had not been so unaffected by the War as she had previously thought. She knew that her own father and brothers had recurring nightmares after the War. But jumping to conclusions, she dismissed the thought that Éomer felt the same pain and suffering at the loss of many good men... And for that, she bore a great sense of guilt.

"Please forgive me, Lothíriel," Éomer pleaded once he had regained his ability to speak.

Tilting her head upwards as he held her close, Lothíriel found herself sighing wearily, "There is nothing to forgive."

"I could have harmed you," he said solemnly.

"But you did not. And even if you had done, it would not have been intentional."

"Why does it still hurt, Lothíriel?" He murmured brokenly.

"What hurts?"

"The pain that I feel from my uncle's death..."

Burrowing deeper into his chest as he absently rubbed her back, the princess frowned, "I honestly do not know, Éomer." Lothíriel closed her eyes as her husband's warm lips caressed her forehead. O, how she wished he would not do that... "You feel pain because you loved him dearly—you still love him. Do not grieve for his death, Éomer; he would wish for you to celebrate his life and his glory as a triumphant King."

She jumped with fright as he gently rolled her onto her back, parting her legs so that he could settled between them. "I cannot toss aside my grief, my love. I will always carry the burden of his death near my heart for the rest of my life..."

Lothíriel squeezed her eyes shut as he covered her tiny body with his large form, moulding himself against her curves. "But I need you to help me forget, beloved," he whispered, "Help me to forget..."

And to her bitter resignation, she felt his hands traverse the sloping plains of her curves as he tried to ignite a pleasured response from her parted lips. And although she could not offer him a response, nor did she offer him encouragement, she allowed him to continue on the path for his release... So that he could find solace in her arms.

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They sat quietly together at the table in his chambers, eating the delicious morning meal that had been provided for them by one of the King's many servants. Lothíriel stared down at her food; the steaming roll, spread generously with warm butter did nothing to tempt her into eating. But she took a dainty bite nonetheless and soon felt the food turn into ash within the moist cave of her mouth.

She desperately wondered how she could have allowed him to use her body the previous night. After the first time, she had promised to herself that she would avoid her husband's wandering hands at all costs. But... He had been so broken and fervent as he tried to release his pain within her body, that she could not find it within herself to ward him off. She wanted to take away his pain, at the cost of her own broken heart.

Did that make her weak? Did that make her a fool? By allowing him to continually show his love, was she simply prolonging both of their pain? For she knew that she did not love him...

It seemed that she did not possess the strength to tell him that his advances were not welcome. And although it was not completely unpleasant to feel him join with her and move within her—the aftermath left her bereft, as if she was wandering the lands of Middle-earth alone with no one to aid her... Bereft of all hope that she could learn to enjoy his body, that she could somehow learn to love him.

"You left the feast."

It was not a question, it was a softly spoken comment that finally broke the unending silence of the room. She swallowed the dusty morsel of food and looked up to find her husband gazing at her with such poignant concern and love. Her stomach clenched.

"Yes," she confirmed.

"You were not well?"

Lothíriel's eyes drifted to the sun-filled window on the far side of the room. She traced the dust particles absently before answering, "I was tired... Was I to wait for you?"

The question was innocent, though she could not help but notice the tightening of his jaw, "Nay, you did not have to wait for me," Éomer paused as he stared her, "But I was worried," he said eventually.

She breathed a sigh of relief and smiled forcefully, "Do not be, I was merely exhausted from the day's excitement."

Éomer sighed, finally accepting her excuse. "You met Elfhelm, correct?"

"Yes."

"He said that you were quite charming and that you would make an excellent Queen," pride tinged his voice.

Surprise clouded her face, "Really?"

"Truly," her husband smiled joyfully and Lothíriel found herself laughing at his quick reply.

"You must thank him for me," she said lightly as she slowly felt the gloom of the chambers dissipate. His words were not of love and their future and she felt that if this was the type of conversation she had to endure for the rest of her life without his touches and kisses, then she would welcome it with open arms.

"I will do," the Rohan King conceded, "And what say you of the Marshal?"

"I like him," Lothíriel admitted shyly.

Éomer raised his eyebrow, "Oh? Pray tell, what do you like about him?"

She pondered the question, tilting her head, "He seems very loyal to the throne."

"Aye, that he is."

"And he loves you very much; he spoke of you not as a King but as a younger brother or nephew."

Éomer could not stop himself from smiling, "He has always treated me as his family, not his lord. When I took the throne, I prayed that he would not change his behaviour towards me. I am grateful that he has not; he is my brother in-arms, close consort and dear friend."

Lothíriel greatly approved of the King's judgement. "Men like Elfhelm will always remain faithful and he will serve you well until his dying breath."

A distant look graced her husband's face, "That is what I fear..." He whispered.

She frowned, "What do you fear, my lord?"

"I fear that his loyalty towards me will be his undoing. I fear that he will die in his service towards me and I will not be able to save him..." The King of Rohan trailed off as his eyes glazed over to recall the horror of past deeds.

"Do your thoughts mirror your dreams?"

He glanced at her sharply, fixing her with his intense stare. She watched closely as his eyes flicked down to the yellowing fingerprints upon her neck. "You are perceptive," he said to himself, "Does it hurt?"

Lothíriel traced the column of her neck with her fingertips as her husband continued to gaze at her injury. "It pains a little, but it shall heal."

"I never meant to hurt you," Éomer reaffirmed, "You know that, don't you? I would never hurt you."

The Princess of Dol Amroth offered her husband a brittle smile. _Not intentionally_, she thought grimly. "I know."

He sighed deeply before casting his worried eyes upon her untouched food. "You will wither away if you do not eat," he motioned for her continue as he stood.

"Where are you going?"

"There are formal arrangements to be made," Éomer smiled conspicuously.

"Arrangements? For what?"

"Your coronation, of course. It will take place at the end of the week."

Lothíriel's heart leapt into her throat.

She gaped at her husband as she received the stomach-churning news. The coronation would make everything so real—it would make _everything_ permanent. She would no longer be a princess of Gondor, but a Queen. She would have to bear her husband an heir to the throne and stand by his side on official business... She would have to embrace her role as Rohan's Queen and she could not help but worry about that _minor_ detail.

Would she even be accepted? She did not know... "What time will you be finished?"

"By noon. I have employed Elfhelm to show you around the palace and to help you get acquainted with the people of Edoras. I will return to you after noon and take you to see the neighbouring plains of Edoras... Will that be to your liking?"

Lothíriel nodded, vaguely aware of his words and their meaning; she was still reeling from the news of her coronation. Bidding his stunned wife farewell, Éomer leaned down to drop a loving kiss upon her head before slowly sauntering out of the room, leaving Lothíriel to deal with her troubled thoughts on her own.

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"Thank you," Lothíriel said quietly as she walked beside the taller man.

Elfhelm smiled, "You are thanking me, but I do not know what I have done to earn your gratitude!"

"For agreeing to show me around Edoras," she admonished, squeezing his elbow with her hand as he guided her down through the bustling village.

From the corner of her eye, she could see people stop and stare at her with surprise and reverence. As they passed, some bowed with awe-filled gazes whilst others simply stood and tried not to gape at her. Lothíriel wanted to laugh at their behaviour—she found it to be utterly heartwarming and endearing. It seemed as if the people of Rohan had forgotten what it was like to have a Queen... After forty years without a female monarch, she could not blame them for their reaction. She felt somewhat eased about the upcoming coronation and knowing that the people accepted a foreigner as their Queen was comforting.

The Marshal beside her chuckled, "It is my pleasure, my lady. I had no outstanding duties to attend and by the reaction you are receiving, I am glad to accompany you!"

Lothíriel smiled as she nodded to an elderly couple standing in the doorway of their thatched home. The old man dropped his walking stick, causing his wife to slap his arm for gawking at the young Queen. She almost giggled, but waved to them instead and received a similar greeting from the bemused couple.

"It is nice to know that the people of Rohan can accept me as their Queen. I was afraid that they would not warm to the idea of a foreigner on the throne."

"Nonsense," Elfhelm berated, "I believe that they are just happy to finally have a Queen after so many years."

"And you?" Lothíriel teased as she looked up at his towering form, "Are you not happy?"

The Marshal smiled tightly, pulling his green eyes away from hers before he could drown in their bottomless depths, "I am very happy, my lady."

"Good! I would terribly upset to find that you do not approve of your friend's choice in taking a bride from Gondor."

"I approve," Elfhelm said to himself, under his breath, "By Béma's good grace, I approve!"

"What did you say?"

"Nothing," he replied quickly, causing her to offer him a strange look.

They paused as a young girl, no more than seven, ran up to the pair as they walked along the path. Lothíriel smiled at the flaxen-haired child with dazzling hazel eyes.

"Excuse me, my lady!" The young girl started fearfully.

"Yes?" Lothíriel prompted softly, releasing her arm from Elfhelm's grasp so that she could bend down to greet the little girl.

"Mama said that I was to give this to you," she presented the princess with a small bunch of yellow flowers, pleasing to eye and nose.

Lothíriel gratefully accepted her gift and took the flowers from the little girl, offering a large smile, "Why, thank you! These are absolutely beautiful! But do you want to know something?"

"What?" The little girl asked, forgetting all sense of propriety, which Lothíriel did not mind one bit.

"I think you more beautiful than these flowers!"

The child blushed deeply and scuffed her foot in the dirt, "T-thank you, your highness."

Laughing even more, Lothíriel leaned close to place a gentle kiss upon the child's forehead. "Will you tell your Mama that I am delighted with my gift?"

She looked at the little girl as she nodded before running away down the path.

"I did not even get the chance to ask for the her name, nor did I tell her mine," she commented to Elfhelm absently.

"I would not worry about that," the Marshal grinned, "I doubt that she will forget you after the impression you made on her."

"You think so?" Lothíriel questioned doubtfully as she allowed Elfhelm to take her arm once more.

"Oh, I am quite certain, my lady!"

Elfhelm smiled gently to himself as Lothíriel nodded. He saw the look of concern that still tugged at the corner of her lips and could not help but suppress his smirk. She did not seem to be aware of the approving stares she received from the local people... And as he watched the interaction between the Queen and the young girl, the Marshal knew that his friend had made the correct decision in marrying her. But for some strange reason, he wished that he could have met her first... He did not know why he wished this. He did not want to know.

The Marshal was simply delighted that his old friend had found such a good wife as Lothíriel. And one day, he hoped that he could find someone of equal worth; though he knew that it would never be _her_.

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**Added Notes: **Next chapter will contain a confrontation between Lothíriel and Éomer... Ah, don't you just love it when things go horribly wrong?

_lady scribe of avandell: _I haven't read your story, but I will check it out now! Thank you so much for your wonderful comments.

_klaw: _Thank you!

_Diadora: _Thank you so much, I love Karl Urban!

_lu kang: _Stick around, things are going to get a lot more interesting! I have some original ideas that will you drooling... Thank you for reviewing

_wondereye: _Our favourite King's POV will come, I promise! Thanks for reviewing

_starnat: _The couple will speak, I believe in the next chapter :-)

_jadeddiva: _Thank you!

_fandun: _Concerning Elfhelm... I just love him as a character and I wanted to portray him in a role where you can't help but fall in love with him, but I also wanted the readers to sympathise with him... Is it working? I hope I don't make you dislike him, he's done nothing wrong... So far. Thanks for reviewing!

_neatard: _Thank you! Have I updated soon enough? lol.

_thayzel: _I completely agree about the propriety! About Elfhelm... Heck, I wish there were men like him around! If there were, I would lock up each and every one of them for my own pervy amusement... Or I would shrink them and keep them in my pocket... You want directions to Rohan? Honey, did you know that Rohan is heavily guarded by the Rohirrim women? They wield deadly frying pans of doom and harbour crazy mares within arms reach, do you _have _a death wish? I know I do! Which is why I am currently trying to disclose the location of Rohan. If I find out where it is, I promise to take you with me and we can see about kidnapping one of those gorgeous, hunky stallions! And I'm not talking about the horses ;grin; Thanks for reviewing!


	5. Broken Hearts

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**By the Sea.**

Chapter Five: Broken Hearts.

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They were galloping across the luscious green plains of Rohan. The powerful stallion between her legs flexed his strong muscles at the silent command of his master.

Lothíriel found herself squinting as the world around her narrowed and grew blurry, the wind howling as it whipped past her reddened ears. From behind, she could feel the heat of her husband's body as he pressed into her back, his laughter was lost into the torrent of the lashing wind that scolded her crimson cheeks. His solid arms wound around her waist, holding her tightly to his chiselled body as though he could protect her from the cruelty of the world.

They continued this form of riding for nearly half an hour before she sensed his grip on the reins tighten, commanding the horse to slow and stop.

Éomer jumped off of the excited stallion and before she could find her bearings, he was lifting her from the saddle as if she weighed no more than a feather. He smiled warmly, his hands straying on her hips longer than she would have liked.

She remained silent.

If she were honest, she was silent because she was far too breathless to speak. The ride had been absolutely exhilarating and exciting; she could feel every muscle in her body sing and hum from the blood that was being pumped zealously to her muscles.

"Did you enjoy the ride?"

She blinked away her musings and focused on her husband, watching him take out a blanket from his pack so that he could set it down on the lustrous grassland. It was then that Lothíriel noticed her surroundings. She looked around in wonder, drinking in the sight of the white and yellow wild flowers that were perched upon healthy green stems, as the cloudless sky above mirrored a calm sea on a bright summer's day.

The delight she coveted at the vision and scent around her did not go unnoticed by her husband. He smiled inwardly as she absorbed the beauty of his country.

"I did enjoy myself," she finally replied breathlessly.

They locked eyes and Lothíriel found herself smiling, "I have never ridden so fast before! I dare say that it was terribly exciting to feel the wind upon my face and the world just seemed to fade away..." Lothíriel trailed off in embarrassment; the words she had spoken were the most she had said to him about her inner-thoughts since their marriage in Dol Amroth.

Éomer chuckled at her obvious pleasure, "I am glad you enjoyed yourself," he sat down upon the blanket and motioned for her to join him.

Lothíriel followed suit and sat down on the soft cloth with much aplomb. Deftly arranging her riding skirt in the correct manner, she finally looked up at him demurely. "You are an extremely accomplished rider," she admitted reluctantly, "I wish I had the skill to ride a horse with such familiarity and composition."

The Rohan King merely bowed his head modestly at her compliment, "The children of Rohan were born to be in the saddle... But I can teach you to ride, if you wish?"

"Really?" She was genuinely shocked by his offer. By being the newly crowned King of Rohan, she did not think that he would have much time to teach her the skill of riding a horse with the same dexterity and grace that he possessed. It was as if her husband was an extension of the powerful stallion, merely adding to the speed and beauty of the creature.

"Yes, really. Once you are settled into your duties, it will be my pleasure and honour to teach you," the sincerity of his voice warmed her.

"I am afraid you will need to possess a great amount of patience to teach me. I am not an adept learner."

"You are being too modest, my wife. I have seen your sharp mind at work in the learning of new languages and cultures of Middle-earth," he reached into his pack and began to set out their afternoon meal.

Lothíriel watched him closely as he set out bread and various cheeses and fruits to sate their appetite. She stopped his progress, much to his amusement, and took the pack from his hands so that she could continue with the task herself. "Aye, I do enjoy learning about the different races and languages; however, in physical tasks such as horse-riding, I am more clumsy than you would believe."

He laughed, "Surely you jest!"

She poured the crimson wine from the canteen into the silver goblet as she smiled sheepishly to herself, "I speak with the utmost truth, my lord. You may consult these findings with my father and brothers; I am far too clumsy for my own good."

"You do not have to worry," Éomer said quietly, "I will make sure that you do not fall."

Their fingers brushed lightly in an unsettling manner as she handed him the goblet of wine. Lothíriel shied away from his touch and observed the food before her critically. As the conversation between them began to taper off into an awkward silence, she desperately tried to think of something to say that would steer the conversation away from his comment.

"This is a beautiful meadow," she blurted out.

He sent her a strange look before answering, "There are many of these meadows spread out over Rohan's land. Farmers in the various settlements tended and cultivated the meadows and grasslands but many were ravaged during and before the time of the War. Though they are slowly beginning to heal from their hurts, it will be many years before Rohan is restored to it's former glory and beauty."

"That is a shame," she offered sympathetically. The gentle sound of running water caught her attention. Frowning, she tilted her head and gazed at her husband, "Is there a stream nearby?"

He was surprised by her alertness, "Yes, there is... How did you know?"

"Because I can hear it," she smiled secretly.

"But... It is not close by."

Lothíriel shrugged gracefully, "It is said that my ancestors were descended from Elvish blood. Perhaps that is the reason for my sensitive hearing."

Éomer stared at her long and hard, the corners of his mouth twitching as he mulled over her words, "It would explain your beauty," he said thoughtfully, "But it would not explain your clumsiness!"

Laughter overcame her at his wit, "Indeed, my lord! A toast to all Elves and their clumsy mortal descendants," she raised her glass and took a sip of the tart wine. Feeling much more relaxed in his presence, she settled herself comfortably and began the task of eating the delicious food in front of her.

After halting his laughter, Éomer and Lothíriel continued to eat their noon meal in mutual silence that was comforting rather than awkward. As the wine flowed and food disappeared, Lothíriel began to pack away the remainder of their impromptu picnic, still unwilling to break the calm silence that surrounded them.

"Thank you for this afternoon, Éomer," she said once the left-over food was tucked away into the pack.

He grinned, "You are welcome; I have enjoyed myself. I am dreading the thought of returning to Edoras... The duties I have to attend are endless."

"Such is the plight of a King."

"I did not wish for this..." Éomer grimaced, "I do not belong on the throne; I am a warrior and protector of this land. I do not have the capacity to rule a country and I am afraid," he lost himself within his thoughts.

Lothíriel empathised with the warrior-turned-king. There were many times that she wished she were an ordinary woman, rather than a princess with official court duties. They were tiring and taxing in their endless demands.

On impulse, she reached out held his hand, startling her husband from his reverie. He looked down at their entwined hands before gazing up at her with a heated expression that caused her to recoil inwardly.

Reaching down to the grassy bed, Éomer plucked a wild flower and handed her the tall green stem with an impish gleam in his sparkling brown eyes. She accepted the gift reluctantly and looked down at the white petals of the flower with a furrowed brow. The snowy petals bloomed outwards, as though they were the hands of a woman, reaching out for an invisible lover that did not exist.

Her thoughts were soon ripped away as, to her horror and surprise, Lothíriel suddenly found herself being pushed back onto the blanket. Her eyes widened as Éomer's lips sought hers, crushing them together with such bruising ardour and lust that it sparked a small amount of fear within her. She knew that he would not hurt her, but the sight of her husband acting so impulsively was simply daunting and unwelcome.

As he settled on top of her, she knew that she was helplessly pinned beneath him, at his mercy and will. She could see his fingers curl around the front ties of her bodice, slowly pulling them apart to reveal more of her naked flesh beneath the dress; his other hand trailed up the side of her thigh, beneath the folds of the riding dress.

Everything was happening too fast for her to comprehend.

With panic rising in her heart, she pounded her small fists against the hardened muscles of his chest. In his surprise at her actions, Lothíriel managed to push her husband away so that she could sit up and retie the front laces of her bodice with trembling fingers.

"Lothíriel?" Her husband's hesitant voice finally broke through the barriers in her mind. Her shoulders shook as she turned to face him, seeing him resting on his knees with a pensive expression upon the fine features of his face. "What is the matter, my love?"

"I am not your love," she heard herself snap. It was as if her voice was speaking from a distant land, echoing within her ears...

Éomer was confused by his wife's anger, "Have I done something to offend you?" He asked softly, watching her reaction with concern.

Taking a deep breath, she moved further away from his lumbering form. Tears brimmed beneath her ebony lashes, "I am sorry... I cannot continue to do this," she whispered.

"Do what?" He held his breath for her answer.

"I cannot continue to lie to you, Éomer..."

"Lie about what, Lothíriel?" The Rohan King demanded, sitting back on his heels as he folded his arms. She saw his jaw tighten, something she noticed that he would do when he was highly upset or agitated.

Lothíriel swallowed roughly, tearing her ice-blue eyes away from his warm brown pools that beckoned her to speak her mind. Could she tell him the truth? It would break his heart... But it would mean that she would be free from his advances. The consequences were dire, but the need to express herself freely was far too overwhelming.

And so, she steeled her courage into an impenetrable wall around her heart and spoke bluntly.

"I—I do not l-love you, Éomer. Please do not continue to seek your pleasure in my arms..."

The world around them froze as his eyes bore into hers.

They cut away every portion of her flesh, every pore of her skin and soon, she felt naked and raw under his burning gaze. The muscle in his jaw contracted and relaxed at an alarming rate as his eyes held her in a silent prison; she wished that he would release her from the bondage of his gaze. It was unnerving and frightening... Lothíriel shifted uncomfortably under his thorough scrutiny and she cursed herself for speaking her mind. If their relationship had been strained before, it would be a nightmare to be in his presence now that he had discovered the truth from her very lips. And the afternoon she had spent in his company had been so enjoyable!

She cursed her idiocy.

Although, a thrill of anticipation coursed through her veins as she waited impatiently for his response. She wondered why would he not speak. If he continued to remain silent, the torture of his searing eyes would be her undoing.

Finally, to her immense relief, he spoke; "Why did you not tell me sooner?"

Lothíriel lowered her eyelids in shame at his softly spoken question, her lashes caressed the tops of her cheeks as she looked away. The hidden pain within his stern voice rang true and clear within her heart and she felt awful to be the cause of his grief... She truly wished that she could hide from him.

"I was... I mean—I do not know, my lord."

"You do not know?" Éomer asked incredulously, his shoulders slumping in defeat, "I thought you returned my sentiments," he whispered to himself.

Lothíriel gaped at the audacity of the Rohan King, "How could I? I hardly know you! Do you honestly believe that I could love a man whom I knew nothing about?"

"You agreed to my proposal," he accused adamantly.

"I was _advised_ by my father and his councillors," Lothíriel scoffed before continuing, "We spoke but three sentences to one another before you approached my father and yet... You claim to love me!" The truth of her words were not lost upon the couple and it made her comment sting even more.

She reached out desperately and took his large hand, cradling it between her long fingers, "Éomer," the princess pleaded, "I tried to tell you on the eve of our wedding in Dol Amroth, but then you spoke of your intentions and your heart and I could not—I could not find the courage to speak my mind. I was afraid..."

"So you find your courage on this day, after allowing me to seek comfort from your body—comfort that you did not wish to give," he said quietly as she continued to hold his hand within her own. "And now, we shall remain in a loveless marriage for all eternity."

The bitter resentment and acceptance of his voice was not lost upon Lothíriel and it caused her to wince in regret. "I could not pretend any longer... Please forgive me..?"

"What is done cannot be undone," Éomer sighed, "You should not have agreed to this marriage, Lothíriel. For now, we are both tied to our bonds and I fear that over time they will cause much strife between you and I."

She bit her trembling lip, "Why are you not angry?" She wondered absently as he looked at the open meadow of his country.

"I am not angry, Lothíriel... I am resentful and if I am to be honest, I am pained that you do not return my affections. Perhaps I was not admirable enough to secure your love."

"Nay! Do not speak such words; you _are_ an admirable man," a tear slipped from the corner of her eye, "I see it in your eyes when you speak of your kingdom, I see it in the pride of your words—your qualities as a man are truly admirable!"

"I am no more than a horse-master who does not belong on the throne," he said numbly, "A man whom you will never love."

"Éomer..." She was fraught with tension at the defeated stance of her husband, "Mayhap—Mayhap I will grow to love you one day," she said hopefully, "You are a good man, I know you are and you deserve the joy that love can bring. We cannot undo our vows, it is too late, but we can learn to know one another; our likes, our dislikes... Everything!"

"It shall be as you wish."

"I do!"

The Rohan King remained silent, as though her words had not reached his ears. He rose from the blanket wordlessly and waited for her to do the same. Lothíriel sighed and stood, berating herself for the desperate and distraught words that fell from her lips. She did not wish to cause him pain with her comments and fruitless hope, but that was all she had seemed to accomplish.

They silently put away the remainder of their unfortunate picnic. The distraught air between them did not seem to dissipate as the couple walked towards the grazing stallion.

Lothíriel's heart grew heavy at the longing glance he offered her as he lifted her into the saddle, before diverting his eyes away from the delicate structure of her face. Bit by bit, she could see the emotion in his eyes cooling, only to be replaced by the stern and aloof countenance he wore whilst in the presence of other nobility.

The single prophecy she feared the most since her wedding night had finally come to pass; she had broken the King of Rohan's heart... And in turn, she had shattered her own for causing him such undue pain.

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**Added Notes: **And there you have it. Éomer knows and is heartbroken, Lothíriel regrets her decision to speak her mind and Elfhelm did not make an appearance in this chapter. But he will be present in the next. I don't want to rush this story, but the future chapters and plot that I have written are extremely original. So when Lothíriel realises her love for Éomer, it will be done in a way that will leave you... Ok, I won't give _too_ much away, lol. I ramble when I get excited.

Thanks to the reviewers!


	6. An Awkward Reconciliation

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**By the Sea.**

Chapter Six: An Awkward Reconciliation

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They had both gone their separate ways upon their return to Edoras.

Her husband had been undoubtedly quiet throughout the entire journey as he spurred his trusted stallion across the open plains of The Mark. She could sense the tangible frigidity of his shoulders as he sat behind her at an appropriate distance, showing none of his underlying pain. His quiet mien was worrying and upsetting to her; before her confession, she had almost felt at ease in his presence. Now things had taken a turn for the worse, and she felt that she was solely to blame.

Lothíriel had never been more glad to see the golden roof of Meduseld, glowing heartily amidst the peach rays of the setting sun, as it sat atop the peak of a green hill at the foot of the White Mountains. They had been gone for most of the day... But to the princess, it felt like an unbearable eternity. As they had made their swift approach, the couple were spotted by the sentinels on guard and soon, the large gates were swiftly opened to welcome their return back to the city.

That had been over two hours ago.

Éomer had bid her farewell in the stables, informing her of unfinished business that needed to be conducted. He had managed to smile gently through his stern demeanour, before making a swift exit. She was not surprised by his restrained behaviour. Though, it hurt her to be on the receiving end of his distant conduct.

It was one of the reasons that she found herself sitting morosely on the steps leading up to The Golden Hall, once again staring out at the open plains of her husband's fair country.

"You are troubled."

Lothíriel almost jumped ungracefully at the voice that burst through her thoughts. She caught herself in time as she schooled her fine features into a smooth mask of blatant indifference.

"This is the second time you have caught me unawares; are you making a habit of it, my lord?"

"Nay, I simply have the tendency to find you at the times you are unguarded with your thoughts; and that is when you are alone," came the reply.

The princess glanced back at the two guards posted at the doors of Meduseld. "Not entirely alone," she pointed out caustically.

Without waiting for an invitation, her companion settled himself on the step above from where she sat. "You are correct," he said, "And you are also adept at changing the subject, my lady."

"I do not understand," she retorted swiftly.

"Come, my lady, do you take me for a fool?"

Lothíriel tilted her head backwards and upwards to look at the man she had become acquainted with in the past two days. He sat tall and proud under the glittering stars of the cloudless night. She could see his green eyes flicker with understanding and subtle mirth as he locked eyes with her dark-blue orbs, his golden hair fluttering in the gentle breeze. "Do you truly wish for me to answer your question, Lord Elfhelm?"

"Once again, you turn my thoughts away from my former comment," he said thoughtfully.

She almost rolled her eyes, "Is there nothing that will shield me from your prying questions?"

Elfhelm grinned, "It was not a question. I was merely observing."

A dour expression flitted across her face, "Then I must ask that you cease your observations."

Lothíriel could see that he was growing weary of her puzzling behaviour. "I will cease my observations..." He paused, cocking his head down as he looked at her, "But that shall only be done once you have spoken to me of your troubled thoughts."

"You cross your limits, my lord," she barked sharply. "I will not have you question me in such a manner! You are not my consort as you are with Éomer; do not forget that I am your superior and Queen."

As soon as the acerbic words had flown from her mouth, Lothíriel regretted them deeply. She was never one to inform people about her station and nobility, but she could not help herself. Elfhelm's continuing remarks about her troubles wore her fragile nerves to the breaking point and she found that she could not receive his attentions in good humour.

She braved a glance at the silent warrior, and found him probing her eyes with a penetrating stare.

"Forgive me, my lady," he said finally, his voice quiet and reserved.

Lothíriel inhaled deeply, tearing her eyes away from his wizened face. The night was growing cold with no clouds to hide the jewelled stars above. A heavy hand upon her shoulder, caused her to blink stiffly. But it was enough. Without care of discrimination, the sturdy walls around her heart crumbled at his touch and within moments, she found herself crying.

The hardened warrior within Elfhelm was startled at the sight of the sobbing female. But the benign and compassionate manner of his heart soon grew worried at the silver tears that rolled lightly down the curved expanse of her pale cheeks.

"My lady?" He allowed her to take his hand from her shoulder and hold it to her dampened cheek.

"Do not take offence to my words..."

Elfhelm frowned, "Never, my lady." He gently brushed away her tears, unable to stop himself. He knew that she was not weeping for her harshly spoken words, but he chose not to comment further lest she lose all composure.

"Will you escort me back to my chambers?" Lothíriel sniffed.

"Aye," he stood and helped her to her feet.

No words were needed to be spoken as Elfhelm led her back inside Meduseld. His presence was a simple comfort to Lothíriel, for which she was glad. Soon, they came to the large doors of the royal chambers.

As Elfhelm deftly kissed the top of her hand and bid her farewell, he felt an intense curiosity at the pain that burned within the Rohan Queen's eyes. He wondered at the many reasons that could have procured her tears, and found himself inextricably bound to her distress. Perhaps one day, she would be willing to speak about the affliction that coursed through her soul. But he knew that he should not expect such a feat.

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Éomer was already in their chambers when she entered.

He stood from the regal chair beside the hearth at her sudden entrance. Lothíriel smiled forcefully, allowing him to silently assess her appearance. "My lord," she bowed her head in greeting.

The King of Rohan sighed, his brow furrowing, "I shall always remain Éomer, if you wish it."

Lothíriel nodded, not knowing what to say. "I—Thank you."

Éomer lowered his head in acceptance, "Would you like to join me?" He raised his hand and gestured towards the two kingly, high-backed chairs beside the open hearth. The crackling flames soothed her somewhat, their glowing embers lighting the dim room in an appealing manner that calmed her considerably from her previous state.

Lothíriel accepted his invitation readily.

But before seating herself, she walked to the wooden dresser on the far side of the room where she stiffly began to remove her riding apparel. Her husband turned away as she began to dress herself appropriately in her night-shift and gown, seating himself upon one of the chairs as he waited for her presence.

She moved quietly around the room, barely making a sound as she seated herself upon the comfortable, cushioned chair that rested across from her husband's.

They rested together in silence, both turned towards the burning flames that flickered brightly within the large hearth.

"I believe it is my turn to apologise," Éomer announced indifferently.

Lothíriel looked at him in confusion.

"I must apologise for being blind to your true feelings. I misinterpreted them and for that, I am sorry."

If she had felt remorse at her admission before, she felt inconceivably regretful at that moment. How could he be so understanding? She could not fathom the strange inner workings of her husband's mind. It was unbelievable that he could be so empathetic towards her! No normal man would admit his feelings of acceptance at the conflict she had created...

"It is I who should seek clemency, not you," Lothíriel said numbly as they sat in close proximity with one another.

"Consider it granted," Éomer whispered.

"Have I pained you with my honesty?"

He smiled bitterly, "More than you know."

Lothíriel chewed her bottom lip carelessly, "You are a good man, Éomer," she reaffirmed, "From what I have seen, you _are_ a good man..." She trailed off, absently fingering an ebony curl that sat upon her breast.

"—However?"

"I do not know you very well," the irony rang clearly in her voice.

Éomer let out a sharp, mirthless laugh. "I was foolish enough to believe that you reciprocated my affections. It is due to my folly that we are now in this predicament."

"That is in the past," she concluded lightly, "If you would allow me the honour... I should like to know more about the man whom I call my husband."

She almost laughed as he blinked owlishly, clearly confounded and surprised by her willingness to learn more about his character.

"You—You are certain of this?" He stammered.

"Aye... I am, if you would allow me to see the true man behind the crown."

A steady smile curved his lips upwards, before he caught the redness that rimmed her eyes in the soft fire-light. "Do I see faded tears upon my wife's cheeks?"

Lothíriel swallowed at his perceptive gaze, hastily wiping away the remnants of the outward pain she had shared with the Marshal of the East-mark.

When she did not answer, Éomer reached out to trace the faint lines with his finger. "Will you not speak, Lothíriel?"

She offered a sad smile, "I was merely grieving for the hurt I must have caused with my confession."

"Do not fret for me," he smiled in return, "I am made from the sturdy blood of the Rohirrim; we are born to face such taxing trials."

Lothíriel found herself laughing. "You are too good to me," she said, growing serious once more.

"Aye, that I am!" He joked.

"Can you not be serious for one moment?" She huffed, crossing her arms in exasperation.

"I thought it was your wish to know the man behind the crown?" Éomer retorted lightly.

Yet through their light banter, she could detect the small hint of pain lying beneath his jovial demeanour. It would be difficult for her husband to disregard all of his feelings for her. Though she was grateful for the distance he had placed between them, she knew that he would feel pained... His restrained disposition only served to increase Lothíriel's admiration for the man.

"I do," she replied softly, quirking her eyebrow in a pleasing manner so that he could find peace within his aching heart with the knowledge that she was willing to learn about his nature and his character.

"Then it is settled."

Lothíriel smiled, hiding a small yawn behind the palm of her hand.

"Do you wish to retire?" He asked.

She nodded reluctantly, casting a secret glance at the large bed they shared. Éomer rose from the chair and guided her to the bed. Her stomach tightened, wondering if she would have to share her bed with the Rohan King.

The princess was quite surprised when he left her beside the bed, and walked to the doors that led into their private breakfast parlour. She voiced her thoughts, "Where are you going?"

He halted in his steps and turned to his wife with a brittle smile, "There are another set of chambers beyond the parlour. I will—I will sleep there."

Lothíriel frowned, "You should not have to leave your own chambers... Please, stay."

They stood together in an awkward silence, eyeing one another before Éomer sighed resentfully, "Nay, it would not be appropriate."

Once again, Lothíriel could see the stony set of his jaw and the cold glaze that graced his eyes. She was not used to dealing with such different characteristics within one person. It was thoroughly confusing and wearying.

"I bid you good night," her husband said firmly, bowing once before he left the room.

She sat down upon the edge of the bed in a daze, looking at the doorway to the parlour with a flustered expression. Blinking rapidly, Lothíriel slid under the heavy covers and slowly fell into a light slumber, belatedly realising that the sputtering fire in the hearth had not been doused.

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**Added Notes: ** Situations like this only become worse, before they can get better... Don't you agree? (insert evil laugh). Thank you for the wonderful reviews, I enjoy reading your thoughts and comments about this story so far. It is refreshing to hear such opinionated reviews. I am glad that people are embracing this wee little ficlet of mine :-)


	7. A New Life

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**By the Sea.**

Chapter Seven: A New Life.

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There was something wrong.

Over a month had passed since Lothíriel had spoken about her true feelings to her husband. She thought that they would speak and learn about one anothers character, but she hardly saw Éomer. She knew that he was busy with his duties, rebuilding his kingdom, creating treaties and ensuring the safety of his people, but she felt that they had not progressed one bit since the conversation that had occurred in their room one month ago.

They were married and yet, they were virtually strangers.

He had continued to sleep in the room attached to the parlour and so, sometimes, she did not even see him for days at a time. None had spoken about the King's decision to sleep in separate quarters... Lothíriel had a sneaking suspicion that they did not know. If they knew then she was certain that the staff would be gossiping; she did not hear any whispered rumours, much to her relief. However, it was frustrating and she felt incredibly lonely during the nights with no one to talk to.

The days were a different matter.

She spent her time with the other ladies of the court, speaking with them and trying to enjoy their company whilst they completed mundane tasks like embroidery and weaving. They were polite but as expected, they kept their distance due to her status. When embroidery and their company became too much to bear, she found herself in the library. She had made it into her sanctuary, a place of escape, where she could absorb her being into any and every book she chose to read.

Those moments alone were precious to her.

But Lothíriel began to crave for companionship. And so, she found it in a most unlikely person; Elfhelm, Marshal of the East-mark. He was off duty for a few months and with nothing to do, they spent their afternoons together sitting in the royal library and speaking with one another until she was called away to attend a certain duty. Together, they would travel through Edoras meeting the various people that contributed to the kingdom and it's prosperity. Once, she even had the privelege to visit his home; she felt honoured to be regarded as a close acquaintance.

She enjoyed their conversations and debates on these particular walks and moments in the library; she found him to be an incredibly wise, intelligent and loyal man. There were moments when she felt uneasy in his presence, but that was mostly when he gazed at her with a strange expression glittering within his jade eyes, as though he was trying to discern her innermost thoughts and desires.

Elfhelm did not ask her about the tears she had shed a month prior, as he was more worried about the draining pallor of her skin and the fatigue she displayed upon her face. The newly crowned Queen of Rohan tried to appease his concerns, but it was to no avail. And he was right to be worried.

She _was _feeling unwell.

In the past week, nausea and vomiting had afflicted her in the morning and sometimes during the night as well. What she found utterly strange, was the tenderness of her breasts two weeks prior. They had grown swollen and had been incredibly sensitive to touch; then, the purging began. She did not know what was wrong with her and she did not want to unnecessarily alarm the people of the Meduseld. So, she quietly endured her trials.

But a woman could only endure so much and today was the final straw.

"You wished to speak with me, my lady?"

Lothíriel stood awkwardly at the door leading to the head housekeeper's quarters. "I do... May I enter?"

The middle-aged woman with the strawberry coloured hair, curtsied low and stood aside to allow Lothíriel to pass through the doors. She had visited the servants' quarters once with Elfhelm, so that she could introduce herself to the staff. They had been delighted to see their new Queen and Lothíriel found their easy manner appealing and comforting.

Nervously, Lothíriel paced the stone floor of the housekeeper's room without uttering a word. She paused and looked at the woman that watched her with quiet curiosity and concern.

"I—Forgive me for calling upon you so late in the evening, Feger," she apologised.

The woman smiled warmly, her blue eyes shimmering with motherly concern. "Think nothing of it, my lady. How may I help you?"

Chewing her lip, Lothíriel sat down upon the empty chair beside her. She motioned for the woman to join her and waited until she was seated comfortably. Once settled, she took a deep breath spoke, "I did not know who else to turn to... And you have been kind to me with your attentions."

"You are more than deserving," Feger answered, noting her Queen's trembling hands as she brushed away the stray lock of ebony hair from her shoulder.

"I think that I am unwell and I do not know what the cause is," Lothíriel blurted.

Feger sat up abruptly, frowning at her words, "Unwell? Surely you should visit the royal healer!"

Lothíriel nodded, "I understand, but I have been terribly nauseous and the food that I eat is mostly purged before the morning's end. It has been utterly vile and I wish for it to stop, but I feel no other illness except fatigue. I did not wish to alarm the people of the house unnecessarily, which is why I have come to you... What say you? Should I still see the healer?"

A thoughtful expression crossed the older woman's face, her lips quirking into a faint smile, "Aye, I do believe you should seek the healer's aid. However, I may have the reason for your condition."

She frowned; did she hear a faint trace of amusement in the housekeeper's voice? "You do?"

"Indeed," Feger said with smile, "You may be with child, my lady."

Lothíriel's surroundings grew faint. She blinked heavily, "I may be _what_?"

"You may be with child," Feger repeated patiently. "However, it would be wise for you to seek out the royal healer in the morning, to be certain."

The young Queen nodded numbly, rising from her seat to leave the room. "Thank you for your aid, Feger," she whispered, waltzing out of the room without a backward glance.

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She sighed as she sat upon the enriched chair beside the hearth. The door to her chambers opened, allowing a faint gust of wind to enter and cause the flames of the fire to flicker.

"Are you well?" Her husband asked softly from the doorway. He closed the chamber doors behind him and made his way to the empty chair that sat across from Lothíriel's. "Gleawman said that I should come and see you."

"I am well. And you, my lord?" Lothíriel sighed irately at the healer's interference; she cursed him for informing her husband about her illness.

There was a pause. "I—am well."

"Good," she replied tersely.

Éomer frowned at her behaviour, "Are you certain that you are well?"

"Why should I not be? I have not seen you in days, so you cannot know how I fare."

"Ah," he mumbled, realising the reason for her discomposure, "Yes, I have been incredibly busy. The kingdom demands much of my time. I am sorry that we have not had the chance to speak to one another in great length."

"Tis fine, my lord. I understand that your duty falls before other matters. We have not spoken in_ great length_ since you chose to remain in separate chambers."

"I see..."

Lothíriel kept her eyes upon the flames, "I have happy news for your country."

"Oh?" He raised his eyebrow; her tone was anything but happy.

"I am with child. Your heir."

The silence grew so thick between them, that she felt as if she would suffocate.

"Are you certain?" Éomer questioned quietly.

"Aye, Gleawman confirmed the news. He is an apt healer, he would not speak falsely."

The King of Rohan released a long, suffering sigh. "You have my leave to terminate the child."

Lothíriel snapped her head up, looking incredulously upon her husband. "_What?_"

"I said that, you have my leave to terminate this child."

"Are you mad, man!" She almost shrieked.

"Nay, I simply do not wish to force you to bear my child. You claim that you do not love me and I do not wish for you to feel that I have laid an unbearable circumstance upon your shoulders. I would not feel right, knowing that you bear my child when you do not harbour any sentiments towards me."

She rose from the chair and shook her head, "Your brain has been addled, my lord," she hissed.

Éomer scowled dangerously, standing also as he fisted his hands together, "You will not speak to me in this manner, Lothíriel. You may not love me, but I expect and deserve respect from my wife."

"How can I love you when I hardly ever _see _you, _King_ Éomer! You were too busy to even notice my condition; you gave me your word that we would learn about one another... _Speak_ to one another. But I feel as if I hardly know you," she scoffed, "I feel as if I knew more about you before I spoke the truth!"

"You are being unreasonable."

"I am not," she snapped. "You do not speak with me and yet you have the _audacity_ to tell me that you give me your leave to terminate _my_ child? I believe that you forget, this child is also of my blood. I will not terminate this child like a common whore; I would rather see myself dead."

"Your words are bold, my lady," his voice was ice cold.

Lothíriel stared at her husband, frozen in his gaze.

Was this the kind, gentle man that had shown her such affection upon the plains of Rohan? Was this the same man that feared his dreams and sought comfort in her arms?

Looking upon him now, she could see the darkened shadows beneath his eyes and the haggard demeanour and appearance of his body. His brown eyes were rimmed with red, alluding to his fatigue. She was being selfish and she was being rude. Anyone in their right mind could see the suffering within his eyes—see the toll that his duties had taken upon him. And she was making it worse.

She sighed in defeat, "I do not wish to argue with you," she whispered as she slumped back down into the chair, "I will bear you this child... But I _need _to have you beside me. I cannot do this alone," tears brimmed in her eyes as she looked down at her lap.

Her words startled him into dropping his defensive stance. Éomer kneeled down before her, "You are not alone, Lothíriel," he soothed.

"Then why do I feel so?"

He sighed, "I am afraid that I have focused my attentions solely upon my kingdom and have neglected my duties as a husband. Will you forgive me?"

"There is nothing to forgive. You were right, I am being unreasonable."

"I should not have spoken to you in such a manner about the child. I—I feared that you would resent me if I forced you to endure this child-bearing."

"I do not resent you," Lothíriel said adamantly, allowing her husband to take her hands in his, "The situation cannot be helped and it is sooner than I would have liked it to be, but I do not resent you."

"We will raise this new life together; you will make a wonderful mother."

"You think so?" She sniffed, looking at him fearfully.

"Aye, any child would be proud to have a mother such as yourself. I know that I am proud to call you my wife."

He stood then, and Lothíriel thought that he would leave her in the large chambers, all alone. She clasped his hands once more and startled him with her forwardness, "Wait!"

Éomer waited for her to speak.

"Do—do not go..." She started slowly, "I do not wish to be alone... Please stay."

He nodded, smiling tightly at her request. "Very well. We shall deliver the happy news to the people of Edoras tomorrow in the evening, during the feast that will be arranged. I will dispatch notices to the other cities and strongholds of Rohan... I am certain that many will wish to come and pay their respects to the unborn heir," he said wryly.

Lothíriel smiled sadly, "I am frightened..."

"You need not be. I am here."

Upon his assurance, she paused in hesitation before stepping towards him bravely. The look of shock upon his face made her want to laugh, but she remained silent as she gently pressed her body against his for a comforting embrace. It had been so long since she was held in such an innocent manner! The warmth from his body surrounded her as he awkwardly put his arms around her, holding her close with his chin upon the crown of her head. She burrowed herself deeper into his chest, clinging to his strong frame for support.

The news she had received about her pregnancy had startled and scared her witless. She was carrying a child... A child whose father she did not love, but held in high regard nonetheless. He was a good man, and for all his strange characteristics, Lothíriel knew that he _was _a kind, caring man and that he would love their child as equally as he loved her; if not more.

"I am going to be a father," he said finally, in a bemused manner.

Lothíriel smiled, hiding the pain in her heart as he tightened his hold around her waist, pulling her closer. She knew that he would protect her until his dying breath, no matter what feeling she held for him. And for that, she was eternally grateful. He would continue to love her and for some reason she felt strangely secure, as though he were her backbone.

O, how she wished she could find it in her heart to love him.

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"You seem distracted."

Startled, Lothíriel looked up from the open book on the table before her. She smiled absently at her companion, "Not distracted, Elfhelm. I am merely contemplating the irony of life."

"Ai, may lady! You harbour such heavy thoughts for the morning!"

"Don't be ridiculous," she laughed, sounding like a gentle summer rain upon the lush green grass of Rohan.

"And what, pray tell, is the irony of life?"

She shook her head, refusing to speak her true thoughts. To change the course of the conversation, Lothíriel looked at him with a small smile, "Éomer and I have news to announce during this evening's feast."

"News?"

"Aye, happy news—for the kingdom."

"Can you speak to me about the nature of this news?" He asked, leafing through his own book.

Lothíriel hesitated, biting her lip. She battled with herself before finally relenting. "I am with child. You must not speak of this to anyone, before the feast," she said softly.

Elfhelm froze. "That is... That is indeed happy news. I surprised that it is so soon after your marriage."

The Queen of Rohan blushed at the implication, "It is, but both myself and Éomer welcome the blessing."

"Indeed." Elfhelm clenched his jaw, refusing to acknowledge the stabbing pain within his chest as she spoke. "Well then, let me be the first to congratulate you."

"Thank you."

He rose abruptly, startling her with the sudden tension set upon his shoulders. "If you will excuse me," he grinned falsely, "I have some forgotten and urgent business to attend. Farewell, my lady."

And before she could respond, he left the room hastily.

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Elfhelm closed the library doors behind him and leaned heavily against the solid stone of the wall. She was pregnant. And although he was immensely happy for her and her husband, he could not help but feel a pang of jealousy at their blessed life. Of course, both Éomer and Lothíriel deserved to be happy and joyous but he wished—desperately—to share the same happiness with the woman that he loved.

There was no other like her; she was soft-spoken, yet she was hard-headed. She was beautiful, yet possessed a frightening mind that worked with the speed of lightning. She was... She was _Lothíriel_, a woman he had grown to care for and admire in the past month. And now, she was pregnant with his King's child.

Deep within his heart, Elfhelm sorely wished to find a woman to love. He wished to have his own children. He was nearing forty and was ageing, yet he was still alone... Perhaps that was one of the reasons he felt such a deep affection for the Queen. She was his saving grace. She reminded him that there were women on the world that were worthy of love...

With a deep sigh, he made his way towards the stables; a ride upon his trusted stead would be in order. He needed to clear his head and think about the new life that grew within his Queen's belly.

He winced, wondering if he would ever become accustomed to seeing her pregnant.

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**Added Notes: ** Is it safe to say that Lothíriel is extremely confused? Some people have asked about Éomer's POV; it will come soon, I promise! And it will come in the least unexpected way you can ever imagine. I hope you all enjoyed this chapter.

Thanks for all of the reviews, you are all so wonderful!


	8. Surprises

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**By the Sea.**

Chapter Eight: Surprises.

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Lothíriel deftly slid into the fur covers of the large bed. She settled herself comfortably upon the feathered mattress and quietly watched her husband stoke the excited fire within the hearth. The evening had gone by so quickly, that it had been nothing but a blur of well-wishers offering their blessings as the people of Edoras toasted to the King and Queen and their unborn heir.

The occasion had been joyous and loud, and Lothíriel felt her spirits lift at the sight of the nobles and warriors enjoying themselves heartily at her expense. The news of her pregnancy had spread throughout the city of Edoras as the evening drew to an end and her husband had already dispatched notices across the realm to inform the people that in nine months, an heir to the throne would be born.

A smile tugged at the corner of her lips... When Éomer had first announced the news to his advisors, in the privacy of his council room, she swore that she heard a collective sigh of relief from them; the line of Rohan's Kings would be carried on. Secretly, she wondered how they would feel if she bore a girl-child.

At that thought, a wicked grin twisted her mouth.

"Why do you smile so, wife?"

"No reason," she lied, watching him discreetly as he joined her beneath the heavy covers. The nights in Rohan were always so cold and harsh... She expected nothing less. Lothíriel was glad for the added heat of the fire and her husband's warm body.

Éomer turned on his side to face her, "Did you enjoy the feast?"

"I did," came her glib reply. "It was wonderful. The people of Rohan certainly know how to indulge themselves in revelry," she hid a yawn beneath her hand.

"As do the people of Dol Amroth, if I remember correctly," Éomer retorted.

She snorted indelicately, "Nay, Rohan indulges far more." Another yawn escaped her lips.

"I think you are mistaken! I was there at our wedding in Dol Amroth and it was far more raucous than the feast we had this evening. Gondorians claim to be reserved in such functions, but I would have to believe otherwise."

Lothíriel frowned mightily, "Must you always have the last word?"

"Aye, I must!"

The newly crowned Queen was sorely tempted to hurl one of the rich pillows at his smug face, but she felt too tired to retaliate. She refrained from such unbecoming behaviour and simply pulled the covers around her tightly.

"Are you cold? Do you wish for another coverlet?" The concern he felt was evident and she hoped that he would not treat her as though she were breakable during the later stages of her pregnancy.

Lothíriel could not even form a reply as her eyelids slowly drooped down to encase her sight from the vision of her husband. Her last thought was that she did not feel uncomfortable with his presence in the bed as he lay beside her. In fact, she felt quite safe.

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A single rose blocked the vision of the rolling plains of Rohan from her window. Lothíriel looked at the flower with fascination, trailing her eyes along the delicate red petals that reminded her of the softness of velvet. Her gaze ran along the hand and arm that held out the blossom, and finally came to rest upon her husband, looking slightly nervous and incredibly put out. She bit back a smile and took the offered rose, raising it to her nose as she watched the Rohan King shift uneasily in her presence.

"I thought that you would be tied in meetings with your advisors?" She asked absently, brushing the petals of the rose against her nose.

"I was..."

Her arched brow rose fractionally, "Then why are you here with your wife? Does the sight of grey-bearded men not appeal to the King of Rohan?"

Éomer let out a bark of laughter, casting his eyes down to her rounding stomach. "The sight before me is far more appealing than you will ever know."

Lothíriel blushed, a crimson flame spreading out across her cheeks from the quiet compliment. "You are avoiding the question."

He waved away her words, "We shall speak of that later. For now, I wish to show you something."

"Oh? What is it?"

"It is a surprise," he took her arm and eagerly led her out of the library.

She allowed herself to be carried away from her safe haven, laughing quietly at his un-kingly behaviour. If only his advisors could see him now!

In the past few months, the library had been a relief for Lothíriel. It was her sanctuary from the constant fussing of the ladies in her court and the noble women that offered unwanted advice as to how she would feel throughout the pregnancy, and what she should do to remedy the situation. She took it in her stride for two months before she grew tired of their constant nattering.

As ever, she did not see her husband during the day as his political duties did not permit him that simple luxury. But in the stillness of the night, when all was silent and tranquil, they would sit in their chambers and discuss their days in great length.

As the months rolled by, Lothíriel gradually felt her heart soften and warm towards the Rohan King. He was a generous listener and found no trouble in dealing with her nonsensical complaints about the day as she slowly learned to run the basic upkeep of the household from Feger, the housekeeper and her third closest confidant next to Elfhelm and her husband.

Lothíriel found herself speaking more openly to Éomer, unable to hide her thoughts as she would have done only a few months prior. The dreams she kept buried within her heart before their marriage surfaced and she spoke her mind freely, without the fear of being reprimanded or laughed at.

She spoke about her past, her life in Dol Amroth and the stifling conditions of court life; she spoke about times she would secretly listen to her father's council meetings from one of the many private and secret passages of the palace, rolling her eyes and muttering at the complexities of attending to the whims of withering old advisors. He had laughed at this and she felt contentment at his acceptance of her various opinions about court life and politics.

The desire she had felt in his gaze before her confession, slowly melted away to a deeper, more profound affection as their nightly ritual continued throughout the endless days of her pregnancy.

In turn for listening to her constant chatter, Lothíriel hearkened to the fascinating stories about Éomer's past and his life as a Marshal before he became King.

She had been so enthralled by his accounts of small skirmishes and battles with deadly foes, that many hours would pass before they retired to bed. His accounts were much like Elfhelm's, yet there was a lyrical quality to them that she could not place. It was entrancing and wonderful to allow herself to be swept away into the adventure that had been his life; especially during the War. His life had been turned upside down during the dark years, much like hers had been.

However, with the adventure and battle-lust, came the reality and tragedy of his past and the death of his parents that he had to endure at such a young age.

Lothíriel could understandably relate to his hidden pain as she too had lost a parent. Her mother had passed away during the birth of, what would have been, the fifth child to her mother and father. Unfortunately, both babe and mother had perished before the day's end... She had only been five at the time, but the confusion and grief she felt was still tangible within the deep corners of her heart.

And so, she knew how to empathise with the hardened warrior, yet she could never understand the true depth of his pain as she still had one parent that lived and loved her with every breath in his ageing body. as well as three older brothers who cherished her dearly. Whereas the only family her husband laid claim to was his married sister, unborn child and... Lothíriel herself.

It was strange to have the feelings she harboured for her husband, altered so greatly... But the emotions had crept upon her swiftly and slowly, like the lethargic unfurling of tender petals in the dawn, as they caught sight of the first golden rays of the sun. In this same manner, Lothíriel gradually felt that she had uncurled her tightly clenched petals to become a part of his family, and for that she was grateful—grateful that she had something so precious to call her own...

And although there had been much tragedy in Éomer's life, Lothíriel hoped that she had somewhat eased his bruised spirit. Though she was certain that she did not love him yet, she cared for him greatly and would do anything to protect him from the pain of losing yet another family member.

It was with that intent that she listened to his words as he had spoken fondly about his sister Éowyn, and the times of mischief they created at Meduseld. Lothíriel could attest to his affection for the woman that now resided in Ithilien, as they had spoken several times and she found the sun-kissed lady to be fiercely loyal and wonderful in all aspects. She held a tremendous respect for the slayer of the Witchking. Oftentimes, she wished that she had possessed the strength and courage to aid the forces of good that battled the evil around them... But her path had been different. And now, she was married; soon she would be a mother as well as a wife.

But as Éomer endeared himself to her heart, she vowed that never again would she allow her husband to feel the loss of his family. They would remain together and raise their child in Rohan and she would be content with her life—

"Lothíriel?" He looked at her oddly, "What thoughts bear so heavily upon your mind?"

"Nothing," she smiled with reassurance. "Where are you taking me?"

An impish gleam flashed within his eyes.

They were walking through the passageways of Meduseld, in the direction of the King's private halls. She wondered why her husband was being so secretive. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, they reached a pair of doors that would lead out to the derelict gardens and courtyard of Meduseld.

During Éomer's uncle's reign and the dark years of the One Ring, the Golden Hall had squandered lifelessly, losing nearly all it's outward beauty... It was slowly being restored to its former glory but Lothíriel could not understand why her husband had wished to bring her to the dilapidated gardens.

"Close your eyes."

She obeyed, simply to amuse his childish whims. The sound of doors opening reached her ears. Éomer's fingers gently grasped her elbow and slowly led her out into the warm, spring sunlight.

"Éomer, may I open my eyes now?" Lothíriel asked impatiently.

She heard him chuckle, moving to stand behind her with his large hands upon her slim shoulders.

"No, you may not."

Lothíriel huffed indignantly at his laughter. He was thoroughly enjoying her lack of control and were she not dedicated, she would have opened her eyes of their own accord.

"... Now—open them now."

She opened her eyes quickly and blinked away the dark spots lingering within her line of vision.

What she saw next, took her breath away.

The courtyard and gardens of Meduseld had been fully restored; numerous flowers she recognised from Dol Amroth were planted into the ground accordingly, creating a vast array of colourful patterns that were pleasing to the eye and joyful to look upon. A multitude of aromatic scents accosted her nostrils...

She looked upon the marble statues of past Kings and Queens that had also been cleaned and restored to their former glory, placed in parallel rows facing one another along the stone path that led to the pond at the edge of the garden and courtyard. The statues of the Kings lay to her right and to her left, the ancient Queens stood tall and proud as they faced their husbands. It was such a beautiful sight to behold!

Lothíriel could almost feel herself grow giddy from the surprise that had been bestowed upon her.

"Do you approve?"

His question astounded her. "Very much so! It is... Wonderful; so beautiful! There is no place I have seen that can be likened to it."

Éomer smiled with satisfaction, enjoying the look of awe that graced her delicate features. "Come," he took her arm and led her slowly down the stone path between the looming royal figures that stared at them complacently. The had almost reached the end of the garden as they came upon the final remaining statues of the former Kings and Queens.

Lothíriel noted the statue of her husband's uncle with respect, standing tall and proud with noble grace as he looked above her head to the other statue that stood opposite. The marble woman was cold but beautiful as she gazed back. Lothíriel deduced that it must have been her husband's aunt, Elfhild.

Then, she turned her head and looked further down the path, catching sight of another statue standing beside the King Théoden's. Unconsciously, she took a step towards the prone figure and smiled at the strong lines of the face that stared into the horizon. It was a sculpture of her husband, looking graceful and powerful as he posed regally in his ceremonial armour.

" Tis you!" She exclaimed, reaching out to touch the stone face that resembled her husband so profoundly. Yet, there was something strange. The style of this statue was somehow different to the ones before, as though the hands of the sculptor had been refined throughout the years...

"Aye," Éomer laughed, "It is frightening to see myself resembled thus."

"I think it beautiful," she flashed him a smile.

"You do?" His pensive demeanour was not lost to her wandering thoughts. "Then perhaps you should turn to your left."

Lothíriel's brow dipped. She turned slowly to the line of statues represented by the former Queens. Her eyes widened as she gasped, stepping towards the marble sculpture that had been placed carefully on the opposite side of her husband's. It was of her! The stone-smith had done an incredible job in capturing her likeness, that it was as if the statue was a living, breathing representation of herself. Once again, the sense of familiarity that graced the delicate lines of the stone face, coursed through her veins...

The honour Lothíriel felt, knew no bounds. She turned to her husband, who had been quietly watching her continuing reactions, and pulled him into a tight embrace. "This is your surprise?" She asked softly, pressing close to show her gratitude.

"It was... Do you like it?"

"I am speechless," she pressed her ear against the solid heart beat beneath his tunic. Éomer's warm, comforting arms wound themselves around her waist and accepted her gesture of approval. Lothíriel looked up, tilting her head in thought, "I thought that sculptures were only carved once the King had passed on from the realms of Arda to join their forefathers?"

"In Rohan, we commemorate the living. It is an outstanding tradition that statues of the King and Queen are raised once an heir is conceived, to honour them and the Royal House," he grinned, "We bury the dead Royals within the sacred tombs and keep the statues as a memorial to their former rule."

She laughed, "Rohan has many pleasant surprises!"

"This is not the only surprise," he whispered.

"There is more?" She looked at him in confusion.

Éomer nodded, cupping her cheek gently as he pointed back to her statue.

Lothíriel turned and felt her heart fly into her mouth as a shadowed figure stepped out from the hiding place behind the tall sculpture. She gasped in disbelief at the sight before her. "Amrothos!"

Without a care for propriety, the Queen of Rohan ran, as well as she could in her pregnant state, into the open arms of her older brother. As she was safely encased within his familiar embrace, he leaned down to place a gentle kiss upon her brow.

"_Guren linna gen cened, muinthel_," he whispered softly, smiling as he watched a crystal tear of relief fall from the corner of her eye.

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**Added Notes: **Sorry for the wait, it was Bank Holiday and my husband and I decided to take the kids to Devon since the weather had been so good on friday; we just got back. It's a shame the good weather didn't last for very long.

I hope you enjoyed the good times in this chapter, things will happen in the next chapter that I am certain you will hate me for...

_cookie:_ She is 22, thank you for your review! Thanks to everyone that reviewed as well.

**Elvish Translation:**

_Guren linna gen cened, muinthel _— My heart sings to see you, sister.


	9. Broken

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**By the Sea.**

Chapter Nine: Broken.

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She was now seven months pregnant. Her brother had stayed in Edoras for only one month, claiming that her father needed his sons present during the various meetings that were to be held between Gondor and the Eastern countries. She had been surprised to find out that Éomer had commissioned Amrothos to carve their statues for the courtyard gardens; he had worked on them secretly for a month, without ever informing or alerting her to his presence! She felt that there was something familiar about the statues, and to know that her brother had created them, only served to reaffirm her thoughts.

Her brother was a wonderful man to accept the King of Rohan's request, especially when he was asked to remain silent about his presence in Edoras. Lothíriel knew that he must have disciplined himself quite harshly to accomplish that feat. Amrothos was never known for his patience or ability to keep secrets. Truthfully, she had been so touched by the gesture... And now she had a piece of her brother with her in Rohan. She would remember his strong hands, carefully chiseling and carving every line of the stone statues...

Now that he was gone, she missed him terribly. The only other person that could to lift her spirits was Éomer, or Elfhelm. But the Marshal had returned to his post and she felt quite lonely during the days without his company. However, the nights were a different matter.

Éomer would continuously find ways to brighten her dampening moods, and not once did he complain about her changing behaviour. Whether she was brooding or solemn, angry or restless, he always knew what to say to make her heart soar with laughter. There were times when they disagreed, but those arguments were far and few between. Her relationship with her husband was improving greatly and Lothíriel felt that if it continued on this path, then their friendship and respect for one another would blossom even more exquisitely than it already was. She cared deeply for the Rohan King. A form of love was there, but she still did not believe that it was a romantic love.

Something niggled in the back of her mind, however.

She knew that men had certain urges they needed to fulfill, but she also knew that he was not receiving release in her arms. On many an occasion, Lothíriel had thought to speak to him about this. As their relationship grew, she found herself being more out-spoken and vocal and it was on one rainy night that she had mentioned his needs. She spoke to him and told him that if he wished to take other women to his bed, then she would have no qualms about this. After all, she did not love him and even though they were married, she knew that on occasion he would seek out some form of bodily release. She had spoken about this, as nearly all former Kings kept mistresses; in the early days, marriage had only been conducted for political reasons, to join two countries together and form stronger ties. Her marriage, although politically sound, had been carried out solely for the love her husband felt for her. He had no political agenda regarding her, or so she thought.

Lothíriel understood that she was being presumptuous in speaking with him so bluntly, she understood that he loved her. His deep brown eyes often shone with that emotion when he looked at her, but she could not be cruel and allow him to participate in such a one-sided love. And so, she asked him if he would be willing to keep a mistress.

The look on his face had been almost comical, twisted with confusion and then the dawning realisation of her words. Instantly, he had grown angry with her question and had refused to continue the conversation with her for the rest of the night. Usually at first light, he would be gone from their chambers due to his strenuous schedule. But that following morning, he had sat beside her on the bed and spoke to her quite frankly; he refused to take a mistress to ease and relieve him.

He assured her that he was quite well and he even apologised for his anger, which she had been surprised about. She did not deserve such an apology. Her question had been asked in vain, and it was wrong of her to ask that he take another woman to bed, especially when she knew of the love he harboured for her. And if Lothíriel had been completely honest with herself, she would have said that she was relieved to receive such comforting words from him, even though it pained her to see that he would receive no physical love from her when he loved her so completely with his heart, soul and body...

After that day, they never spoke of such a topic again. She could see that it pained him, and so she respected his reticence towards the subject.

The light of the candle, resting inside the candelabra, flickered and reminded her of the late hour and that she had spent far too long on her musings.

The mattress of the bed beneath her was so comfortable, and she wished nothing more than to travel the wondrous journey into the land of dreams, but she could not. She found no rest when her husband was not beside her. He had been extremely busy in the past week, arriving to their chambers late in the evening—exhausted and weary. He informed her not to wait for his arrival, but she could not sleep without him. It was incredibly amusing that she should find herself in such a predicament. But to know that he would be there beside her, always ready to protect her was comforting and so she found herself able to sleep much better with his presence near.

A few moments later, a gentle creak resounded through the large room, alerting her to his arrival. She sat up in the bed, cradling her protruding stomach as her husband stepped through the heavy doors. She winced as the movement jarred her enlarged breasts; they had grown considerably larger, much to Éomer's amusement, and he delighted in teasing her about the tenderness. With their new found friendship, Lothíriel quickly realised that her husband could be quite mischievous and crude when he wished to be. She did not mind his behaviour—she found to be highly amusing and entertaining. It was one of the things that made her laugh about him.

However, as he entered their chambers the look in his fair face was far from amused. A frown furrowed his dark brow and his eyes were troubled and angry.

Éomer stopped by the bed and offered a disapproving stare, "You should be asleep," he said softly, tugging at the ties of his green embroidered tunic.

Lothíriel watched him with concern, "You know that I cannot sleep without my husband beside me; who will protect me otherwise?" She offered a teasing pout to lighten his dark mood. It worked only briefly as the corners of his mouth twitched into a half-smile, before returning to its' former frowning position. In the golden glow of the room, she waited patiently and looked away as he removed his tunic and breeches, so that he could don his nightly apparel. Soon, the bed shifted and he was quickly seated beside her, beneath the heavy covers.

"I will always protect you," he remarked solemnly, dropping a chaste kiss to her forehead.

Lothíriel held back a frown, "What is the matter?" She twisted her position on the bed to face him as best she could in her pregnant state.

Éomer lowered his eyes to her rounded belly, his face brightening slightly at thought of the new life growing inside his wife's womb. " Tis nothing, all is well."

She raised her hand to his cheek and forced him to look into her eyes, "You are lying, I can see that you are troubled. Will you not share your burden with me?"

He sighed and nuzzled his cheek into her palm, closing his eyes briefly as he found joy and contentment in her touch. "I do not wish to worry you unnecessarily."

"Do not try to make excuses, Éomer. Speak," she prompted.

Hesitating only briefly before coming to a decision, Éomer reached out and hovered his calloused palm above her stomach, "May I?"

Lothíriel conceded to his request and took his hand, placing his palm firmly on the bulge, "Speak."

Taking a deep breath, Éomer followed his wife's instruction, "There were many council meetings this day. Reports have been coming in from various cities and strongholds of Rohan..."

"What reports?" She asked, almost fearful of his reply.

"Orc attacks in West and East Emnet; smaller farming villages being ransacked... The foul creatures purge and pillage, killing everything in their path destroying the lands. If it continues this way, then I fear that this year's harvest will be in short supply and the country will starve without provisions. We are trying our best to secure the borders and areas of Rohan's farming vicinity, especially the uninhabited areas where the orcs seem to believe that they can create forts of their own," he snorted, "Sauron has been destroyed but his minions have grown wild in their freedom, to think that they can enter our borders forcefully and take our land... I have already sent a few of my scouts to see how we may solve this new problem..."

"And how will you deal with it?" She whispered, barely noticing his warm fingers stroke her swollen stomach.

Éomer sighed deeply, "If need be, we will have to march into battle. Small skirmishes are all well and good, but if there are more fell creatures than we had previously thought, my éored will be needed."

"And so... You will also be expected to join them?" Lothíriel asked fearfully.

"Aye. As their King, it is my duty to insure the safety of our people. I will lead my men in this mission." He paused and saw the apprehension in her eyes, "Do not fear for me, my wife. All will be well in the end."

"I shall trust your judgement, King," she teased, trying to lighten the mood.

Éomer smiled. His brow rose fractionally as his gaze lowered to her chest and observed the wet, circular patches that dampened her nightshift at her breasts. Lothíriel blushed and crossed her arms above her chest, laughing nervously. "The mid-wife said that it was quite normal for expecting mothers to experience such strange changes to the body.

"I did not say anything," his voice held back his mirth.

She scowled and promptly smacked his hand away from her stomach. "Tease!"

He laughed openly, his mood considerably brighter than it had been before had stepped into the room. Leaning close, he could not resist placing a chaste kiss upon her cheek. "Sleep, Lothíriel. I will have plenty of time to tease you in the future."

Grumbling, she heeded his words and slid back onto the bed, shifting until she found a comfortable position. A small, sleepy smile graced her face as her husband deftly kissed her temple whilst he rubbed her stomach once more before blowing out the chivering flame of the candle and joining her in some much needed rest.

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Her husband's fears had been founded.

There were more orcs than had been expected and so the battle that would take place in East Ement had been inevitable. A few weeks after their late-night conversation, her husband had left with his men to deal with the continuing problem that the country faced in East Emnet.

Had it only been a few days since her husband had led his cavalry out of Edoras? It felt like an eternity to Lothíriel! She could not stand the waiting! No news had arrived as to the outcome of the battle, which should have ended many days prior. She wondered why the cavalry had not yet arrived. Perhaps there had been other, smaller skirmishes that had taken place? She could not be sure.

And so, this was the reason that she had steadily been pacing the throne room of the Golden Hall for the past two days, wearing out the wood flooring with her mindless, effortless task. Stopping briefly, she walked to the small ornately decorated table between the two thrones and lifted the painted, clay-stone vase that rested there. It was already filled with cool water, so that she could pour herself a glass of the nourishing liquid. All of her worrying had left her quite thirsty.

Before she could pour the water, the sound of distant horns interrupted her task.

It was the éored!

Forgetting to place the jug back onto the table, she held it in her hands as she hastily made her way out of Meduseld to greet her husband and the returning men. She walked onto the grand platform that looked out over the entire city of Edoras and the land of Rohan, and waited patiently for the men to enter the gates of the city.

Far below, she could see their horses slowly travel up the winding dirt path towards the Golden Hall. She was relieved to see that of the men that Éomer took with him, many of them had arrived safely. As they neared the base of the steps leading up to the hall, she frowned as she could not see her husband leading the men. Absently, as she searched the large group of warriors, she wondered why their expressions were so somber.

The men came to a halt at the base of the grand staircase that led up to Meduseld. Lothíriel patiently waited for her husband to step forward.

Her grasp on the stone jug tightened as Gamling, her husband's right-hand man slowly ascended the stairs. He came to a halt before her, his eyes hard yet filled with grief.

An acute sense of dread filled her. She did not even notice that many of the citizens had come out of their thatched homes to witness the arrival of their King and his reunion with their dark-haired Queen. Behind Gamling at the bottom of the stairs, the warriors stood silently as they watched the interaction between their Queen and Chief Commander.

Gamling fell to his knee and bowed regally.

"Gamling?" She heard herself whisper, "Where is Éomer?"

It was then that she recognised the familiar sword in the man's hands. He presented it to her, holding it above his bowed head as he knelt before her.

"Your majesty," Gamling started, his voice strained, "I present to you my lord-king's sword..."

All colour drained from her face with the fair-haired man's spoken words. She knew of this ritual... To be presented with a warrior's sword meant that—

Masking her face in a stony expression, she looked down at the man with all of the poise and grace she could muster in her pregnant state. "Explain yourself." She was proud that her voice had not trembled.

Gamling sighed, "It is my deepest sorrow to inform you that his highness has fallen... He led us into battle and guaranteed our victory. But upon the return journey, our company had been ambushed and trapped by another group of orcs from West Emnet. We fought as best we could in the treacherous conditions, but as the night faded and the new day dawned, we found no trace of the King... We believe that he fell, though we could not find his—body," the man grimaced at the harsh words.

At Gamling's words and confession, the decorated water-filled jug Lothíriel had been holding, deftly slipped from her fingers and crashed to the ground. The liquid spilled out onto the stone platform as the jagged shards of the clay-stone clattered against the hardened ground, lying at her feet in broken pieces, like her heart.

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**Added Notes:** ;gasp; What have I done? I know... I am evil! ;does an evil jig; Poor Lothíriel, poor Éomer, poor unborn baby. I am glad that everyone appreciates the fast updates, it makes writing worthwhile to know that people embrace this aspect. Hugs and kisses to all!

Thanks for reviewing!


	10. King's Return

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**By the Sea.**

Chapter Ten: King's Return.

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The Golden Hall had been in a uproar at the news of Éomer's death. The death of another King was a hard blow to the country of Rohan and the only comfort that the people could embrace, was the babe that grew within Lothíriel—the rightful heir to the throne of Rohan. Two weeks had passed since Gamling had delivered the news... Two weeks. And those two weeks had been the longest of her life. The period of mourning would last for another week, before she finally had to claim the deceased King's throne on behalf of her son.

Éomer's advisers had insisted that she become Regent of the country until her son came of age and was able to take the throne. How could she refuse? She had a duty to her husband's people... Her people. She could not leave them without a monarch, for they would surely flounder and drown without one. The Rohirrim were proud people—a warrior race. They were in need of a figure-head, but Lothíriel was unsure that she was the right person to lead the country. She was certain that her husband's loyal advisers would wish to see her child take the throne, which was why they had insisted that she claim it on her unborn child's behalf.

Lothíriel also learned that Éomer had written a decree months before his departure. It stated that if anything should happen to him, he wished for her to rule in his stead until their child came of age.

But Lothíriel was worried. She was fearful of the upcoming birth of her child. The months had flown by and in those months she had learnt that pregnancy and birthing was immensely difficult and dangerous for women. She was terrified that she would not survive her the birthing of her son or daughter, and that she would leave her child orphaned and alone... Who then would rule the country? She knew that she would have to write her own decree and, if anything should happen to her, she needed to find another person to rule the realm... But who? That was another problem that she had not yet solved.

And if she were perfectly honest, she was was still in the process of grieving. Lothíriel had no wish to continue her duties, for she felt that her heart was breaking and shattering at the mere thought of her husband's death... The halls of Meduseld felt empty and barren without his presence and the nights were cold in the lonely chambers she had shared with Éomer.

At night, she lay awake and thought of the happier times she had spent in her husband's presence. Of the laughter they shared and the tender moments that now caused her heart to ache so deeply. She had thought that she did not love him... Had she been wrong? To think that he had suffered before his death pained her greatly. Numerous questions remained unanswered in her mind; how did he perish? Did he suffer greatly? Was his death quick, or had it been prolonged? And why had his body not been found? Surely she could still cling on to that one piece of hope...

"Your majesty?"

Lothíriel turned from the high windows of the library that overlooked the rolling plains in the distance, "Yes Feger?"

"It is time," Feger curtsied, waiting patiently for Lothíriel to ready herself.

"Has my father arrived?" She asked absently, rubbing away the faded tears from her pale cheeks.

"Nay, your highness. Word was received that he will arrive at the end of the week, perhaps sooner... Weather permitting."

Lothíriel nodded with a frown, "I understand. The weather has been growing treacherous..."

"Aye," Feger agreed, "The storms of Rohan are dangerous for inexperienced travellers. It is best that Prince Imrahil avoids the roads, for they will surely be flooded."

The Queen of Rohan sighed, biting back the tears that brimmed within her sea-blue eyes. After Gamling had given her the news, she had immediately dispatched a notice to her father, informing him about the tragedy. She desperately wished that he would have been here before the burial was to take place... Even though there was no body to bury.

With trembling hands, she smoothed out the lines of the black dress that draped comfortably around her swollen form. She quietly held out her hand and allowed the older woman to guide her out of Meduseld, so that she could lead the funeral procession to the ancient tombs of Rohan's former Kings.

In those tombs, she would finally lay her husband's sword to rest. Though she knew that she would never be able to lay her heart to rest.

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"Prince Imrahil?"

The Prince of Dol Amroth raised his head from the parchment his grey eyes had been focused on.

The continuous downpour of torrential rain upon the roof of the tent alerted him to the terrible conditions that they would still have to face as they continued their journey towards Edoras. He sighed, wishing with all his heart that the weather would clear so that he could see his daughter. His beautiful, widowed daughter. A dull ache tugged at the strings of his heart at the thought of his daughter; alone in the expansive halls of Meduseld.

"What is it, Hinluin?" He asked the guard that had been posted by the opening of the tent. The Prince had insisted that he did not need guards at his tent, but the advisor travelling with him had insisted on it. Imrahil was sure that his advisor wished to protect him at all costs, but he found such customs ridiculous and time-consuming for the guards that were ordered to carry out the nightly vigils in front of the tent.

"Two of your Knights wish an audience with you."

He put the parchment away, the letter his daughter had written, and beckoned the guard to let the Knights enter.

Soon enough, two strong-looking Swan Knights entered the tent and bowed low. "Well met Fimalen, Faervel," he looked at the two known Knights with curiosity.

They were good men, proud and noble—worthy of being Swan Knights. He distinctly remembered that Faervel had asked for his daughter's hand in marriage, when she had only been nineteen years of age. Faervel had been nearing thirty and of course, Imrahil refused his proposal but he knew that Faervel and his brother Fimalen were both trust-worthy warriors, as well as friends. The Prince of Dol Amroth had received many marriage proposals for his daughter, but he had always declined... Until his sworn son, Éomer, had asked for his daughter's hand in marriage.

The man had been like a dog with a bone and every occasion that would crop up, he would pursue Imrahil about his decision. Imrahil had made his decision from the very first moment that Éomer had come to him about their betrothal. He was a King, a strong man, a _good_ man and he could see that the Rohan lord cared deeply for his daughter. And so, he had accepted the proposal. What he had not been ready for, was his daughter's refusal. After all, the King cared for her and so Imrahil had assumed that she too secretly cared for the King. But alas, his beloved child held no such intentions towards Éomer and had not even thought about the Rohan King since their first meeting in Minas Tirith, at King Elessar's wedding. Suffice to say that he had been a little vexed by his daughter's flat out refusal. But soon, she had seen the light and agreed and all had been well.

The news of Lothíriel's pregnancy had been a blessing in disguise. The messenger that had given him the news had almost been frightened to death when Imrahil slapped him jovially on the back.

But now... He did not even wish to think of the grief his daughter was experiencing. He should have known that as a warrior-king, Éomer would have a duty towards his people. But his duty had left Lothíriel widowed and his unborn grandchild fatherless.

Imrahil blinked away the thoughts and focused on the concerned faces of the two Knights.

"Well met, my lord-prince," Faervel, the older of the two brothers, stepped forward. The orange glow of the tent room warmed his chilled skin considerably.

"You wished to speak with me?" Imrahil stood from his seat, clasping his hands behind his back.

"Aye," Faervel continued, "My brother and I were sent out as scouts by our Captain four days prior." Imrahil nodded from him to go on.

The tall, broad-shouldered man inhaled deeply, "We came upon a village half a league from our camp; the weather was far too dangerous for us to return sooner but the people were kind enough to let us stay in an Inn until the storm had cleared... My lord, whilst we were there we learned that an injured man had been found wandering the plains of West Emnet a week ago. He was brought to this village and cared for by a member of staff at the Inn we were staying at. We heard whisperings that he was one of the King's éored and that he had been in the battle of East Emnet days before he had been found. How he was found in West Emnet is unknown, but we heard that his injuries are still severe and it is not known if he would survive. I asked about this man and told them that we were journeying towards Edoras, and that we would take him with us so that he could live his remaining days within the city, with his family. My brother and I were taken to him and I was most shocked to find that it was not one of the King's soldiers, but King Éomer himself!"

Imrahil bit back a gasp at the words, "What? Is he still alive? Where is he now?"

His sworn son had been found!

The Prince of Dol Amroth began pacing as Faervel informed him that as soon as there had been a break in the weather, he and his brother had ridden back to the camp post-haste, along with the injured King and a young healer that had been tending to him for the past week. It had been dangerous to travel as his wounds had been extensive, but they had managed it fairly well as the King had not awoken since his ailments had been tended to .

Imrahil ordered them to bring his Éomer to his own tent. He then spoke with Fimalen and told the Knight to inform his oldest son that the King of Rohan had been found and though Éomer was still alive, he was in great need of healing hands...

The Prince of Dol Amroth prayed to the Valar that his daughter's husband would fight his life-threatening wounds and that the weather would brighten so that they could continue on to the final leg of their journey towards Edoras and inform his daughter and the people that their King had been found! He prayed with his heart that the Rohan King had enough strength to survive.

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"You highness!" Feger burst through the doors of the silent library with surprising force.

Lothíriel started and dropped the precious scroll in her hands, "What is it Feger?"

"Your father has arrived!" She cried breathlessly, curtseying awkwardly in her excitement.

Lothíriel's stomach dropped at the news. It was three days after her husband's funeral and Lothíriel had much to do in his stead. She knew that starting tomorrow, her time would be filled with endless meetings where she would take counsel with her husband's advisors... Her advisors now, about the ruling of the realm. But her father was here! She hurriedly picked up the scroll and saw that Feger was almost bursting from some unspoken news.

"What is it?"

The older woman bit back a grin, "On their journey towards Edoras, the Prince's men came upon a village... There, they found the King!"

Lothíriel blinked, "They found his body?" She whispered the question, afraid to speak out loud for fear of this conversation becoming a reality.

Feger shook her head, "No, my Queen. He lives! The King is grievously wounded, but he still lives! They have brought him to Edoras; he currently is in the Healing Halls with your father and brother, Lord Elphir."

Lothíriel's face grew ashen. He was alive! Her husband was alive! "How bad are his wounds Feger?" She asked fearfully.

"I know not," Feger shook her head sadly, "He remains in a deep sleep; he was awake when he was found but once his wounds had been dealt with, he fell into slumber and has not awoken since. That was over a week ago."

"What happens if he does not awaken?" Lothíriel bit her lip, her eyes darting about the room as her heart pounded wildly against her ribcage.

"My lord-king is strong," Feger said adamantly. "He will survive!" She paused, unsure if she should say her next words.

"Speak, Feger," Lothíriel commanded, seeing the look of hesitation upon the older woman's face.

The flaxen-haired woman sighed, "I heard rumours that King had been taken and tortured by the orcs; the deep wounds he received will forever mar his body. Though somehow, the King managed to escape before he could be killed by them."

"How do you know this?"

"It is what some of the Knights have been saying. There was news that your father and his company came upon a band of roaming orcs searching for something; they slaughtered the fell creatures before any harm could be done but it has been said that the Prince is certain that the orcs were looking for the King."

"You say he was found in a village?"

Feger nodded.

"Why didn't the people of the village inform us that he was in their care?"

"They did not know he was the King... They thought him to be one of the King's soldiers."

The Queen of Rohan was baffled, "How could they not know that he is their King?" She cried sternly.

"Peace, your highness," Feger soothed, "Many of the Rohirrim people do not know what their lord-king looks like. Either they have not made the pilgrimage to Edoras to see him, or they cannot because they are too poor to afford to travel to the city. The King is but a faceless name they cling to—he is their hope and their saving grace; though some may never know what he looks like, he is still respected and revered."

"I see," Lothíriel's eyes grew stormy. If only the people of the village had known! They could have sent messengers to Edoras and she would have dispatched Riders to bring her husband home. Instead, she had mourned his passing and had placed his sword in the tomb of his forefathers! "Take me to him," she demanded finally, almost forgetting that her father had arrived and had been the one to bring her husband home.

Feger curtseyed once more and led her Queen towards the Healing Halls of Meduseld.

A deep seed of relief blossomed within Lothíriel's heart as every step she took, led her to her husband's side.

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**Added Notes: **This was a filler chapter. Next one, the drama begins. Oh and she loves him. She's just being ignorant and stupid for a little while longer. Éomer's POV will come soon, hang in there for a while and I'm sure you'll be surprised at our king's state of health ;evil laugh;

Also, I am sorry for the wait, my daughter thought that it would be a _fun_ idea to bring her drink near the keyboard of our computer... Her father was supposed to be _'watching' _her and not only did he give her the wrong cup, but he also left her _alone_ in our study for (his excuse:) only a few minutes. Men! They don't realise that a child only needs a few minutes to do some heavy-duty damage. They are such incompetent fools, but we still love them ;sigh; And yes, I forgave him after an hour of verbal tongue-lashing.

Thanks to everyone for reviewing!


	11. Awakening

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**By the Sea.**

Chapter Eleven: Awakening.

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A week had passed since her father had brought Éomer back to Edoras. In that time her eldest brother Elphir, a gifted healer in his own right, had done the best he could to stabilise her husband's condition, along with the aid of the Royal healers at Edoras. She had learnt from her father that Éomer had not woken since he had been found wandering the plains of Rohan—that had been almost three weeks ago and Lothíriel was beginning to grow nervous. It was almost a blessing in disguise that Éomer would awaken for short intervals during his first week at Edoras, allowing the healers to feed him give the wounded King much needed sustenance and strength from the food and water.

His condition had been grave; cracked ribs that needed to be bound regularly, in hopes that they would knit and heal. A dislocated shoulder that had been set back in the village and lashings upon his back and chest that would undoubtedly leave permanent scars to his body. But the most worrisome injury he had received were a series of blows to his skull and face. Upon first sight, Lothíriel had been horrified by the damage he had sustained to his face and head. His nose had been broken and his eyes were no more than two puffy slits that looked terribly painful set inside his bruised face.

She had felt so helpless when the healers informed her that it would be best for her to leave the room, to allow him privacy as they healed his wounds and for her to subdue her discomfort at seeing him thus... She wished that she could have done something—anything that would ease his pain. Though she was glad that he was in a healing sleep and unable to feel or comprehend the damage that had been done to his body. At least there was some relief for the mighty King.

Over the next few days after Éomer's arrival at Edoras, his advisors made inquiries to many of the warriors that had been part of Éomer's company, about how their King could have been captured in his own tent and subdued by the orcs, and how he was taken away without being noticed; they wondered how Éomer managed to escape from the fell creatures' clutches, for it had surely been a miracle that he did, especially since he had been in such a dire condition when he had been found. In the end, their questions remained unanswered and deep inside, they all knew that only Éomer could provide them with the answers. And that would only happen once he regained his strength to stay awake for more than a few minutes at a time.

"You should be resting, my daughter."

Lothíriel smiled sadly as she shifted in the cushioned chair that had been placed bedside her husband's bedside. "I am not tired," came her reply. Her father stood quietly beside her, his hands behind his back.

Once the healers had done all they could to aid Éomer during the day, Lothíriel found herself sitting by his bedside during the endless hours of the nights so that she could see to his needs, if he had any.

Her days were filled with council meetings, as she supervised her husband's advisors in their tireless efforts to secure the safety of their country. A countless number of trade agreements with neighbouring lands had to be signed and put through the process of official stamping; she had to admit that the advisors were not lacking in wisdom.

Already, they had started to secure the borders of Rohan with more soldiers who supervised the coming and goings of people and materials along the borders. She knew that such tightening of laws at their borders would concern the people of Rohan and affect the merchants' trade, but it had to be done for their safety. During the former King's reign, such laws had been relaxed under a certain individual's insistence. Gríma Wormtongue was his name; an unsavoury character who had fled Rohan soon after the arrival of Gandalf the Grey. Lothíriel was certain that he was one of the many reasons that contributed to the orcs that had found their way into the land of Rohan.

A heavy hand upon her shoulder reminded her to the presence of her father.

She was eternally grateful that he had remained in Edoras, even though she knew he only travelled to Rohan to pay his respects to his sworn son's tomb before making his way back to Gondor and Minas Tirith for talks about the river trade agreements. Lothíriel knew that her father would inform the King of Gondor about the condition of her husband, but in the end she had still sent a message to the great King, if only to ease his mind; she knew that he and her husband had become fast friends in a time of much darkness and doubt. Their friendship and brotherhood had eased Éomer's troubled heart considerably.

"Why are you still awake, _Ada_?" She sighed and added teasingly, "Tis far too late in the evening for an old man to be wandering the halls."

Imrahil chuckled wryly. "I believe that it is my duty to question you on such matters, daughter."

"I cannot leave his side," she looked down at the slumbering form in the large bed. He seemed so small and vulnerable... It broke her heart to see her husband injured to gravely.

"Were he conscious, I am certain that he would wish for you to rest, given your condition."

"Give me a moment longer _Ada_," Lothíriel yawned, "I will retire when I am certain that he is comfortable."

Imrahil shook his head at his daughter's obstinacy. Leaning down, he placed a gentle kiss upon her head, "You are more stubborn than your mother," he cast his eyes down to the glowing profile of his daughter, silently watching as the dim candle light flickered upon her fine features.

Lothíriel took his hand from her shoulder and held it tightly, "A fine compliment, if any."

They laughed quietly.

Absently, Imrahil straightened the shawl upon his daughter's shoulders, "You remind me of her," he commented sadly.

"Is that such a bad thing, _Ada_?" She said softly, leaning into his hand as he stroked her hair.

"Nay, it is a blessing. Your mother was a good woman."

"I know."

Silence settled between the father and daughter as they looked at the wounded figure on the bed. Finally, the oppressive atmosphere became too much for Lothíriel and so, she spoke the truth of her mind, "I fear for him..."

"He is a warrior at heart, he will survive this and become stronger."

"I am certain that he will heal from his physical wounds but... what of his mind? Orcs are not known for their gentle nature; they must have degraded and abused him in the worst way possible. How will he recover from that?"

"You worry needlessly," her father assured, "He will be fine. After all, he has a devoted wife by his side at every free moment she can spare."

Lothíriel almost winced at his words. Devoted wife? How could she tell her father that she had been anything but a devoted wife! She had refused, time and again, to believe that she loved the Rohan King more than she cared to admit. She had been foolishly frightened that he would not accept her after her confession in the first few months of their marriage. Lothíriel knew that her father would be livid that she had expressed such truthful feelings to her husband.

It was her duty as a Princess and now, a Queen to rule by her husband's side and support him in all matters of court life. But she had selfishly pushed him away and it was _he _that supported her in the end. And she would be in his debt forever. Was this love she felt? This constant fear for his safety, the fear that he would be too broken to accept his role as King... The fear that he would not acknowledge the child growing within her... She longed to see his smile, to see his warm brown eyes twinkle with mischievous glee as he teased her for the umpteenth time. She enjoyed his sly comments and missed them greatly. But above all, she missed _him_.

Beneath the folds of her loosely flowing gown, her unborn child kicked against her stomach as if in agreement with her thoughts.

_'You must awaken, my lord,'_ she thought to herself, _'So that I may earn your trust once more and love you the way you deserve to be loved...'_

Imrahil bit back a yawn and silently squeezed Lothíriel's shoulders before turning to leave the room that was situated in the Healing Halls.

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The Marshal of the East-mark swirled his silver goblet of ruby wine as he sat across from his old friend and comrade, a lieutenant of the King's éored. The dreary weather on the outside of the tent did not detract from the warm glow that emanated from within. Their tents had been lined with stately furs and other trappings of comfort, due to their station, but Elfhelm felt slightly guilty for swanning about in luxury when he knew that his men did not have items such as insulated animal skins on the floors of their tents.

"A toast to our victorious efforts!" Éothain said, raising his own goblet. Though he would have preferred a tankard of ale, the wine was delicious in it's own right. "And to the safety of our land," he added stoutly.

Elfhelm raised his own glass before taking a small sip. "We have been successful in our endeavours, my friend. The Eastern borders are secured and the trade posts have been set up, all of which are running fairly smoothly. We shall return to Aldburg at first light and dispatch messengers to Edoras to inform the Queen and the King's advisors of our triumph; I trust that you will wish to join them in delivering the news?"

"I would," Éothain replied readily, "Have you any word from Lord Erkenbrand about the status of the Western borders?" He questioned with interest.

"They have secured the borders and are patrolling the land west and north of Edoras for any orc encampments that may have been overlooked. We are lucky that the battle of East Emnet aided us in the eradication of the fell creatures..." He trailed off and glanced down at the floor of the tent, "It is a miracle that the King was found in the Westfold by villagers and brought to Edoras by Prince Imrahil. We should have been more thorough in our search for him..."

"Aye, Rohan has suffered far too many tragedies to lose another King. It would not have boded well for the country," Éothain remarked solemnly.

"Indeed."

Éothain observed a foreign look upon his friend's face. "What is it? What troubles you?"

Elfhelm started as he was pulled away from his thoughts, "Nothing."

"I have known you for far too long. Will you not speak your mind freely to an old friend?"

The Marshal sighed in resignation, "I was merely contemplating your words. The death of the King would not have boded well for our country, but can you imagine what burdens would be placed upon the Queen? She would be grief-stricken and I am quite certain that the King's advisors would wish for her to retain rule over Rohan until the heir to the throne comes of age." Elfhelm was afforded a frown from his comrade.

"Why should that trouble you...?" Éothain trailed off as he discerned the look upon his friend's face. "Ah. You... Care deeply for the Queen?" His words were carefully spoken, and he was glad since Elfhelm glanced at him sharply.

"I am not judging you," Éothain insisted hastily, "But—are you certain it is wise to harbour such feelings?"

Elfhelm did not respond.

It was all the incentive Éothain needed to speak his next thoughts, "You believe that you are in love." The pained expression upon Elfhelm's face was all the confirmation that was needed. The sullen warrior exhaled loudly as he leaned back against his chair, confused as to how his friend could have fallen in love with—"You realise that your feelings are akin to treason?"

Elfhelm inhaled sharply and nodded, looking at the remaining contents of his goblet. "You will speak of this to no-one." It was not a question, but a command.

Éothain nodded seriously, "Is this the reason why you have sent all reports of the Eastern borders through messangers, rather than going to Edoras yourself these past few months?"

"It is. I have distanced myself from the... Situation, so as not to further this problem."

"A wise decision," Éothain said thoughtfully, pondering upon the irony of it all, "I have known you for many years, my friend, and not once have I seen such an expression marring your face. Years of avoiding female company and you finally decide to choose the unattainable. Congratulations, I would not have thought it possible."

Elfhelm could not help but chuckle at Éothain's comment and the absurdity of his current dilemma.

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The council meeting had been going on for more than two hours and Lothíriel was beginning to grow restless in her seat. Two weeks had passed since her father journeyed to Edoras... Two weeks since her husband had only woken a handful of times, incoherent to his surroundings, but still giving hope to his people and Lothíriel that he would heal swiftly and all would return to as it should be.

She had insisted on keeping the council meetings in the small library room that connected to Éomer's own chambers in the Healing Halls. It was done so that she could be near to him should he awaken... But she knew that she had insisted because she worried constantly for his health and during the few breaks that were granted, she was always leaving the meeting room so that she could check up on him, much to the pleasure of Éomer's advisors; it showed that their Queen cared deeply for his recovery. Which, of course, was preposterous as she truly wished for Éomer to heal quickly so that she could know for certain that he was safe at last. Safe and away from the danger of dying...

"Lord Elfhelm has informed us that the Eastern borders are now secure," said the familiar voice of an advisor, "Lord Erkenbrand is also on the verge of clearing the Western lands completely of any dangers that may pose a threat to Rohan."

Lothíriel nodded, her face impassive. "What of the trade agreements? I understand that some of the neighbouring countries, save for Gondor, were not pleased to hear about the tightening and restrictions of our laws."

"They have accepted them reluctantly," the grey-bearded advisor replied. "They know well the penalty for smuggling goods across the border."

"Good," she was pleased that everything was in order. "We must make an example of those who do not adhere to our laws."

"Well put, your highness," another, slightly younger, advisor praised.

Lothíriel resisted the urge to grimace. Instead, she inclined her head to the younger advisor. She knew that out of the ten men, some of the advisors were more attention-seeking than the others; it was the younger ones that vied for her approval much more and the elders that spoke with wisdom, content to remain in the background. Her husband had done well to secure such trust-worthy men as his advisors. Even if some were a tad more annoying than others.

"I believe that—" Lothíriel halted her speech as the doors that connected to Éomer's chambers began to open.

She scowled, wondering who would dare to interrupt the meeting without even knocking on the door. A sudden thought came to her; who would be entering the room from the King's chambers in the Healing Halls?

The room was silent as the doors slowly opened, only to reveal her husband standing as naked as the day he was born, leaning wearily against the frame of the doors with his right arm in a sling.

Lothíriel and the men gaped at the sight before them.

He was awake and well enough to stand! The Queen of Rohan's joy was short-lived as she realised that he wore no clothes as he stood in the doorway; his raw and heavily scarred body in full view for them all to witness. From the facial expressions of the council men, she could tell that they were clearly embarrassed and shocked by the King's unclothed condition especially at the sight of his battle-scars. But Lothíriel could only see something else... Something in his eyes that reminded her of a childish innocence and vulnerability.

Éomer coughed once before speaking in a timid voice that did not seem to belong to him, "I couldn't find any clothes..."

Rising slowly from her seat, Lothíriel looked to the advisors and spoke quickly, "This meeting is adjourned for today; you may leave until further notice. Please inform Gleawman and send him to the King's chambers immediately."

They murmured in ascent, each one clearly flustered to see their King in such a state of undress—though they realised that he might not have been in the right frame of mind after such a traumatic experience.

As the advisors began to depart from the small library room, Lothíriel clutched her heavily swollen stomach as she waddled towards her husband, all the while wondering what was wrong... He was finally awake, so why did she have such a sense of foreboding? And why were his eyes so free and devoid of recognition?

She pulled her shawl from her shoulders and carefully wrapped it around his injured frame to offer some form of dignity. "Come, my lord," she said quietly, motioning for him to return to his chambers.

Éomer frowned, "Am I to return to bed?"

Lothíriel bit her lip thoughtfully, "You are still healing from your wounds, my lord. It would be best for you to return to your chambers and rest."

"Why are you calling me that? Who am I?" He asked quietly as she guided him into the stately room, "Who are _you_?"

Lothíriel froze.

She looked at him sharply, "Éomer?"

"Is that my name?" He questioned in a small voice, befitting of a child, "Is it Éomer?"

Her stomach tightened as she helped to lower him onto the bed, "You do not know who I am?" She whispered fearfully.

Éomer shook his head, blinking.

The innocent expression on his face had nearly undone her.

"I think you're pretty," he grinned before growing sad, "But I want my Mama. I remember her. Do you know where she is?"

Lothíriel thought that her heart had stopped beating. What was this madness? What in Arda was happening! She swallowed roughly, "I do not know where your Mama is," she lied.

His face fell, "Oh... Are you going to look after me if you can't find her?" His warm brown eyes were wide with anticipation.

She was beginning to breathe heavily now, becoming short of breath at the anxiety she felt in her heart. "I will always look after you," she murmured to herself, feeling tears prick at her eyes as she sat down wearily upon the chair at his bedside. Lothíriel looked at him as he sat quietly upon the bed, tilting his head as he watched her before breaking out into a large, uncharacteristic smile that spoke of the carefree days of youth, when the burden of duty would have been nothing but a distant dream.

"Do you promise?" He asked tentatively.

"I promise," she choked back a sob.

"What is your name?" Éomer wondered aloud, almost frowning at the brimming tears within her sea-blue eyes.

"Lothíriel," she replied softly, blinking back her grief at the man... No—child that sat in the bed before her.

He leaned close, as though he were speaking a secret, "I like that name much better than my own."

She watched him closely as he chewed at a fingernail from his good hand. And for the second time, Lothíriel could feel her heart breaking as she gazed at the man-child that was her husband. She did not know how, or why, but he had recovered and regained consciousness only to forget his true identity and adulthood. Lothíriel would have to speak with Gleawman to confirm her husband's amnesia and child-like behaviour; if it would be temporary, or if the injuries to his head would leave him permanently damaged mentally... She was not looking forward the healer's conclusions.

Fearfully, she reached out to pull his good hand away from his mouth as he bit at his nails. She firmly held his large hand tightly within her own and furiously tried to halt her tears from flowing down the smooth expanse of her cheeks.

Éomer pulled his hand away from her grasp and reached out to wipe away the glistening tears that slowly formed at the corner of her eyes, "Why are you crying? Are you sad? Mama says that big boys do not cry... But you're not a boy, are you?"

Lothíriel hastily wiped away the remainder of her tears and smiled falsely, "No, I am not. But even big boys are allowed to cry occasionally."

He shook his head solemnly, "I have never seen one cry..."

"And I pray that you do not," Lothíriel leaned closer and placed her palm against his familiar cheek, wishing with all her heart that Gleawman would not tarry in his arrival.

There was much that needed to be discussed.

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**Added Notes: **Longer chapter for the longer wait! I would like to thank everyone for their constant support, it encourages me in ways you cannot fathom. Please don't hate me for Éomer's condition... :-( I know you must think I'm a loon to do this to him, but I hope you enjoyed the little (or big) twist and had fun (well, ok, maybe not _fun_) reading this chapter.


	12. Child's Play

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**By the Sea.**

Chapter Twelve: Child's Play.

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"You were correct in your assumptions, your majesty," Gleawman said softly. "The blows that Éomer-King has sustained to his head are the main cause for his behaviour. Though they may not be the only cause. As you know, fell creatures thrive on pain... And they most assuredly thrived on his pain. It may be that he regressed into his child-hood years to escape the torment that was being inflicted upon him by those beasts. That, coupled with his head injuries and loss of memory, I am not surprised at the outcome."

Lothíriel sagged slightly in her chair. She turned her head away from the tall healer to look at her husband, slumbering peacefully on the bed with no trace of pain upon his face. It was a small relief in the large bundle of problems that seemed to follow her night and day. He had fallen into a deep slumber with a smile on his face, before Gleawman had arrived at the Healing Halls. She had been thankful for this; she did not wish for him to know of his predicament at present. There would be enough time to inform him at a later date. For now, she wished to see her husband carefree and joyful—unburdened by the troubles that seemed to plague their lives constantly.

"Will he recover from this ordeal, Gleawman?" Lothíriel was afraid to ask, but she needed to know. No matter what Gleawman's answer would be, she knew that she would stand by the Rohan King's side. That was never, and had never, been a question in her mind. It would pain her deeply to see her proud, noble husband reduced to the mind-set of a child of six years. But she would maintain her promise to him. She would look after him, as well as their own child.

Gleawman paused briefly before replying. "It is difficult to tell at this precise moment how soon his recovery will be. He has only just risen, but I pray that his memory will return and that with that, his senses."

"It is what we are all praying for," she murmured ruefully.

"I would not worry," Gleawman added quietly. "His Lordship has great strength. I have the utmost faith that he will regain his senses and return to his full strength."

"But there is no guarantee."

"What does your heart tell you, your majesty?"

Lothíriel's brow furrowed as she absently held her husband's hand, "That he will recover... Given time. He will recover."

"Then you have your answer."

She turned to the healer and smiled wearily, "I thank you, Gleawman. Were it not for you and my brother, I would have feared for the King's safety."

Gleawman smiled warmly at her in response before he set about re-wrapping Éomer's bound arm. He then cleaned the cuts and wounds upon the King's torso, observing the lashings upon his body with a frown on his gentle face, "Hmph."

"What is it?" Lothíriel asked worriedly, looking at her husband and then the healer.

"He has indeed suffered greatly at their hands," Gleawman said, almost to himself.

Lothíriel was hard-pressed not to scowl. "Sauron's spawn still haunts Middle-earth!" She spat, feeling an unimaginable fury ignite within her veins.

The healer was clearly surprised by her passionate out-cry. He stopped his motions and regarded her silently, "They do not deserve your thoughts," he began earnestly, "Do not let your anger for those foul creatures hinder your attentions for the King. He shall need you when the time comes for his memory to be returned. All shall be well in the end." With his plea spoken, he resumed his treatment of the slumbering King.

Lothíriel nodded to herself at his wise words, pocketing them away. In many ways, the old healer reminded her of her father. It was a comfort in troubled times.

"Should we tell him? Should I inform him that he is a King and that he is not a child but a great warrior fallen upon hard times?"

Gleawman mulled over her question with, "Nay. It is best to leave him as he is. If he regains his senses and becomes a man, even without his memories, then it would be wise to inform him. But until that day arrives, it would be in his interest to allow him to live out his child-hood years."

"Very well," Lothíriel said thoughtfully, "I shall send word to staff and members of the Golden Hall to treat him as such. But I do not wish for his condition to be known by the people of Edoras, nor of Rohan. The news would only serve to diminish the country's hope about his full recovery. They will be disheartened with the knowledge that their King behaves like a child of six summers."

"A most just and wise decision."

The room fell silent soon after that revelation. Lothíriel sat back in the cushioned chair and placed her hand upon her expanded stomach. She felt as though she would burst at any moment. Her feet were swollen; _she_ was swollen. But she knew that it would only be a matter of days before her child would be born—hers and Éomer's. She wondered what it would be like, if her husband did not recover from his head injuries, to have two children in Meduseld. It would be certainly be quite a sight to behold. She prayed to the Valar for Éomer's swift recovery.

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Two days had passed since the revelation of Éomer's condition.

Lothíriel had informed the people of Meduseld and the King's advisors about the minor set-back in his recovery. Many had been shocked and disturbed by the possibility that their King would remain a child forever. A child's mind in the body of a grown man. Still, she had persuaded them not to give up hope and in the end had managed to alleviate their fears slightly. The advisors had accepted her husband's plight but were eager to believe that he should recover in due time.

Meanwhile, Lothíriel would continue to rule in his stead. She knew that the upcoming birth of the heir had everyone on tenterhooks. Pregnancy and child-birth was dangerous for a woman. But she knew that the mortality rate of pregnant noble women was lower than those who were not born into an aristocratic family. She wondered if it had something to do with the hardships of their lives; she had not done a single day's work of manual labour in her life.

For some reason, Lothíriel felt guilty about this.

Holding her swollen stomach, she slowly made her way to the Healing Halls. It was early in the morning, but she knew that Éomer would be awake, bright-eyed and extremely frustrated at being bound to his room. His injuries prevented him from over-exerting his body and Lothíriel adamantly refused to allow him to go outside and '_play_' with the other children. She did not let him, partly because of his injuries and partly because he was not a child. He was a grown man... And besides, there were no young children in Meduseld. There were many in Edoras, of course, but Lothíriel would never allow him to leave the Golden Hall until she was certain that he was fully recovered. Even then, it would be difficult to let him leave the safety of Meduseld, as she had informed the staff to keep silent about their King's condition.

Reaching the doors to her husband's chambers, she slowly opened them and stepped inside.

"Lothíriel!" He cried, struggling to sit up in his bed as she presented herself to him.

She began clucking at his excitement and swiftly aided him in sitting up. She fluffed his pillows and placed her hand upon his forehead to check the heat of his skin. It was normal, much to her relief.

"How long have you been awake, Éomer?" She admonished lightly, dropping a light kiss to his bruised brow in greeting. Lothíriel held back a soft chuckle as he crossed his eyes to look up at her. She withdrew and bumbled her way to the chair beside his bed.

"I haven't been awake long," Éomer replied innocently.

Lothíriel would not believe his words for all the gold in the world, "Indeed?"

He grinned and nodded before pulling a wooden object from beneath the sheets that covered him, "Look!"

She gazed upon the wooden horse in his hands with amusement. "And who gifted you with this beautiful creature?"

Éomer lifted the horse into the air and danced it across invisible plains. "Gleawman gave it to me. It's the best horse in the world!"

The Queen watched him silently as he played with his toy horse. Even now, he was being reminded about his heritage through the aid of children's' toys. The Rohirrim were a remarkable people, she had to give them that. From an incredibly young age, their children were introduced to horses and riding and ere they become adults, their love for horses grew to unimaginable heights. It was as if they were born to love and master their horses. And she understood; it was their birth-right. And ultimately, it would be their unborn child's birth-right... If only her husband would recover soon! She knew that he would have basked in the joy of teaching his child about the Rohirrim culture and his people. He would have schooled the heir with a kindness and love that would have been unparalleled. Instead, Éomer himself was being taught about his culture... And that thought tore at her heart.

"Lothíriel?" Éomer lowered his horse and looked at her shyly.

"Yes, Éomer?" She blinked, forcing herself to smile at the innocent eyes that gazed at her with such trust and admiration.

"Can I you something?"

"You may," Lothíriel offered an encouraging smile as she spied his hesitance.

He smiled timidly, "Well... I was just wondering...?"

"Yes?" She urged.

"I was wondering why your tummy was so big!" Éomer blurted out, "I mean, the rest of you is small. So why then is your tummy so huge?"

An expression of pain clouded her face. She hid it before he could detect her sadness at his question. "I am carrying a baby."

His eyes grew wide with awe, "A baby! And it fits in your tummy!"

"Yes," she laughed. "It most certainly fits."

"How did it get there?" He chewed his lip thoughtfully as he tilted his golden head, waiting for her answer.

Oh dear.

Lothíriel wondered how she would explain this without causing herself embarrassment. Perhaps it would be best to leave Gleawman to this predicament. But she knew that if her husband regained his senses, he would not forgive her for allowing him to ask such a question to one of the oldest healers in Edoras. With a subtle smirk, she decided to offer him an altered version of how she became pregnant.

"When a man and woman are married and they love one another dearly, the husband gives the baby to his wife so that he or she can grow in the her stomach." It was not a lie, but at least it was not a detailed analogy of love-making.

"How does he give it to her?"

Valar! He was like a dog with a bone. She almost blushed but schooled her features into indifference. She knew that, if her child was a girl, she would have to impart this knowledge to her in due course. "The way in which the man gives his wife a baby is through a precious gesture, one that I will tell you about once you are older."

"You will not tell me now?" He almost pouted.

"Nay, I will tell you when you are older."

"I wish I were older _now_," Éomer sighed, glancing at his horse before raising it once more. "Where is your husband, Lothíriel?" He asked absently, making '_neigh-ing_' sounds as he wriggled the horse in the air.

Lothíriel wanted to weep for her husband as she witnessed him playing with the toy. If only he knew! If only he knew that _he_ was the father of their child. O, Valar! How much suffering did he have to endure before he could live in peace? How much suffering did _she_ have to endure before she could tell him that—that she loved him...

"My husband is not here," she answered as truthfully as she could.

"Oh..." Éomer whinnied and set the horse aside for a second time, "When the baby comes, will I have someone to play with then?"

"Yes," she laughed. "You will. And will you help me look after the baby?"

He nodded solemnly. "My Mama isn't here now, but I will help you look after baby when it comes. Does that mean you'll be my Mama now?" He was frowning.

Lothíriel wished that she could say yes, but the thought was far too disturbing. "I am not your Mama, Éomer," she said gently. Tears welled within his warm brown eyes. Well... That was obviously the wrong thing to say. "But I will look after you like your Mama," she added hastily, trying to abate his sniffles. "If you wish it, I shall always be here for you."

The once mighty King rubbed his eye with his good hand, ceasing his tears and giving her a large grin. He nodded enthusiastically.

Rising from her chair, she leaned close to place a parting kiss upon his brow. "Now, will you promise me that you will rest?"

"Why? Where are you going?"

"I have very important meetings that I must attend. Will you be good for Feger?" She looked at him expectantly as she spoke of the kind woman. The housekeeper had agreed to look after the recovering King and tend to his needs as a nurse. She knew that Éomer could be a handful when he wished it.

"Feger is not as pretty as you," he scowled. "And she treats me funny."

"Oh? How so?"

"I don't know... Just funny."

She knew that he was merely searching for an excuse to avoid the declaration of his good behaviour. "Éomer," she scolded lightly, her eyes flashing in a reprimand.

Éomer sighed. "I will be good," he promised with an adorable grin that just melted her heart.

Satisfied with his pledge, she stroked his head before turning to leave. As she reached the door, Éomer spoke out one final time, "When will you come back and play?"

Lothíriel turned and tilted her head in thought, "As soon as I can," she replied steadfastly. "Now get some rest, otherwise I will not come!" She threatened teasingly.

Éomer promptly flashed her a wounded look that spoke of deceit, for he truly was not fearful of her words. He knew that she would come, she always did and Lothíriel felt that he took every advantage of her in that aspect. Chuckling, she exited the room in a lighter mood.

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Days later, she went into labour.

It had been during the night that it happened. Water seemed to pool beneath her on the bed sheets, between her legs. Soon, pain began to shoot through her abdomen and she knew that it was time. She felt incredibly calm, not at all panicked as she thought she would be.

Rising from her bed, Lothíriel carefully walked over to the bell-cord and pulled the rope urgently. It would ring in the healer's room and alert the mid-wives to her needs. Sure enough, three women and a female healer came bustling into the room, all of them still bleary-eyed from sleep. The women soon rushed around as they gathered wash bowls from the antechamber and cooling cloths for her body, as well as crisp new sheets, linens and towels.

They tended to her throughout the long hours of the night and well into morning as she went through the lengthy process of the painful contractions. This time was spent in a haze for Lothíriel as she could not recall how many hours seemed to come and go. Time bled into one constant and there was nothing except the pain—the damnable pain!

After what felt like an eternity, the contractions in her abdomen grew closer and closer and soon Lothíriel was crying out for relief. The women tried to soothe her as they spoke words of encouragement and comfort, but she could not hear them.

She was perspiring rapidly and she felt exhausted as they commanded her to push.

"Push, your highness, _push_!"

Push? The women wanted her to push? She would push all right! Push them off the damn platform of Meduseld if they continued on with their ridiculous demands. Why could they not understand her need for sleep? Her need to be free from the pain?

With a loud cry, Lothíriel pushed downwards as the next bout of pain accosted her. She desperately clung onto the hand of one of the mid-wives and thought she heard the woman groan in pain as well. Feeling the never-ending pain sear through her again, Lothíriel pushed with all her might. She grit her teeth and willed herself to push, if only to be rid of the pain.

The pain receded briefly, but she knew that it was not over.

Once again, the pain returned and she felt too tired to do anything. But as she was encouraged and goaded, Lothíriel mustered the last remnants of her strength and grunted indelicately as she gave one final push. There were worried mumblings from the woman that she could not understand.

Relief coursed through her veins as she felt the weight of the child slide out from her. Slumping back against the pillows, she closed her eyes and breathed heavily, over-exerted and clearly out of breath but utterly joyful to be able to see the face of her child.

The concerned murmurs from the mid-wives caused her crack her eyes open.

"My baby," she murmured hoarsely to one of the mid-wives, "Where is my baby?"

The mid-wife smiled thinly, her eyes shifting nervously as she pressed a cool cloth against Lothíriel's forehead, "Rest, my lady-queen."

Lothíriel felt slightly panicked by the woman's reply. She struggled to sit up but was pushed back by the golden-haired woman. "Where is my child? Where is my baby?" She cried weakly.

The grief and worry in the woman's eyes was palpable. A tear rolled down Lothíriel's cheek as the fair haired mid-wife shook her head sadly, "I am sorry, your highness... The babe did not survive the birth."

The babe did not survive... But—how? Why? Lothíriel knew that she would get no answers to the questions that she were poised on the tip of her tongue. Instead, she wept bitter tears for her lost child, her piercing wails echoing through the Golden Hall like a ghostly presence that would find no rest, no comfort and no peace in the dawning day.

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**Added Notes: ** Oh-eh, you hate me now, don't you? I don't intend to write cliff-hangers... But oh well. Can they be cliff-hangers if I update regularly? Lol. I don't think they are, but I agree that this story is getting depressing. I took poetic license with the end of this chapter, so please forgive me but I simply had to add more drama and tension ;sigh; But who says that it was Elfwine? My lips are sealed until future chapters ;does another evil jig; I love Éomer... Poor child-like Éomer.

Buttercup7; I hope this chapter answered your question ;-)

Thanks to all those who keep reviewing, your words make my day! ;offers reviewers home-made biscuits;


	13. Ghost of Meduseld

**Author's Note/WARNING**:

The loss of a child can be difficult to convey. I have no wish to offend anyone reading this story, so you have been thoroughly warned. I drew upon Lothíriel's disposition and actions through my own experiences as I went through my third miscarriage. It's hard to control one's actions when such sorrow is experienced, as you'll see through our heroine's eyes. For me, that moment in my life was a dark time in a dark place. Though soon enough, it was overridden by my joy and utter fear at the birth of my daughter and then my second child two years later. So even though I have no inkling as to how it feels to lose a child whilst giving birth, I know what it is like to grieve for the loss of one.

Once again, you have been warned.

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**By the Sea.**

Chapter Thirteen: Ghost of Meduseld.

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There were no tears left—she had none to offer. No words, no thoughts... Nothing. Her heart felt empty and bottomless, like the great caverns of Moria; it was too much! Far too much. She neither wept nor grieved, for she was numb from the continuous lashings upon her shriveled heart. It had been a month since her silent child lay buried in the tombs of her forefathers. A girl. The Valar had blessed her with a girl-child, only to have her taken away by their unseen hands as they choked the life from her. That was how the babe entered the world; silent, unmoving and utterly devoid of life.

Murmured whisperings passed between the people of Edoras.

They said she was cursed. A cursed sea-woman from Gondor that had cast an evil eye upon Rohan and it's Royal family.

Lothíriel knew of their unkind words and she had even started to believe them. Perhaps she was cursed? She was doomed to rule over a people that would forever despise her. She was the reason for her husband's condition, _she_ was the reason for the death of her child. A child that had been unwanted in the beginning... And the Valar saw this in her heart. They punished her, for the child was not born of love but from necessity. And they sought to rectify the mistake. But she had loved her unborn babe! When the final months came, she was deeply in love with life growing within her womb... In the end, she had also grown to love her husband. But it mattered not. Her fate had been decided and her punishment doled out.

She sighed heavily as she looked at the newly forged treaty within her hand.

The King's advisers still held onto hope—the hope that her husband would regain his senses and claim the throne once more. They were good men. They were loyal to Éomer and they were loyal to her, and for that she was most grateful. It was the advisers that spoke of Rohan's discourse at the loss of the child. But they implored her to ignore the peoples' wild superstitions and claims that she was cursed; she was a good Queen and a sound ruler that had secured the safety of thousands by managing to tighten the borders of Rohan. In the end, she had proven her worth to the advisers and that was good enough for them.

Her father, however, wished for her to return to Gondor and Dol Amroth so that she may heal the wounds of her heart and body. He understood that Rohan needed a Regent to rule in her stead, but he was worried for her and begged that she return with him.

Lothíriel could understand his concern. After her initial recovery, she barely ate and the hours of her day were filled with countless meetings and the reading of trade agreements and treaties, as well responding and observing many reports that came from the borders of Rohan. During the day, the grief was not so tangible as to affect her, as she kept herself constantly busy. She found that by remaining occupied, she could distance herself from the reality of her child's death and Éomer's condition. It was the nights that were the most difficult. The endless hours between star-light and day-light, where her thoughts and tears ran free—unencumbered by the many distractions that the day held. Oftentimes, she found herself roaming the halls of Meduseld, like a ghostly shadow that walked through empty halls and past slumbering guards, never finding rest nor respite from the aching chasm within her heart.

And so, she could accept her father's reticence towards her behaviour. But Lothíriel refused to return with him. Finally accepting defeat, her father had returned to Gondor with her eldest brother and the contingent of Knights that travelled with them from Dol Amroth. On the day he left, Lothíriel saw the grief in his eyes. The silent grief that he held for her—for his lost grand-daughter and sworn son, who still behaved in the manner of a child. Before he left, he pleaded with her to visit Éomer; she had not done so since before the night of her labour. Three weeks passed and she could not bring herself to remain in the same room as him.

Her father spoke of Éomer's countless requests to see her, he informed her of his sworn son's distress at being shunned by Lothíriel... This tore at the very fibres of Lothíriel's heart. She desperately wished to see him, to converse with him but she could not. She could not bear the pain of informing him about the loss of their child, for he would surely ask her where the babe had disappeared to. She was a coward. She knew that she was hurting him by not seeing him... But she could not bring herself to see him in his unhappy state. It only added to the weight of her heart and the anguish she constantly endured throughout the long hours of the night.

She simply wished to forget.

Already, another week had flown by since the departure of her father and she missed his solid, comforting presence. Lothíriel had yet to visit her husband... Though the advisers were constantly pleading with her to do so. Their pleas fell upon deaf ears. She would do so when she could muster her courage and strength to speak with her husband.

A gentle knock upon the door of her private study, roused Lothíriel from her deep and troublesome thoughts.

She frowned.

"Enter."

Lothíriel stood from her seat as the door opened slowly. Her eyes widened with surprise as the Marshal of the East-mark breezed through the door with a gracious smile upon his fair face.

He halted mid-stride as he took in Lothíriel's stunned, haggard appearance.

She gazed at him with relief and joy; her friend had returned! She had not seen him in many months... Of course, she understood that he had his duty to fulfil, but that did not mean that she hadn't felt the loss of his presence.

Briefly, Lothíriel wondered if he knew... If he knew about the fate of Rohan's heir and King. None outside the Golden Hall possessed the knowledge of her husband's condition—but perhaps one of the advisers informed him and he sought to return to Edoras to see the King himself? After all, it was known throughout Edoras that the King and Marshal were dear friends from the long years of the past.

Lothíriel raised her hand to her throat, blinking as she traced her fluttering pulse with trembling fingers. Upon seeing the Marshal's face, the burden that had rested on her shoulders grew light and sure enough, relief washed over her like the gentle waves of the sapphire sea lapping against a golden shore.

She exhaled.

They did not speak.

Propriety was soon thrown to the way-side as she rushed to him, and clung to his solid form in a chaste embrace that sang of comfort, friendship and love. Lothíriel could see that he did not know how to respond to her passioned outburst. But she refused to relinquish her hold upon the hardened warrior.

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Elfhelm froze as the King's wife leapt forward to hug him.

Any action that he could have taken, would have resulted in raised eyebrows from many, had they witnessed their private reunion. In the end, he finally allowed himself to encase the tiny woman within his arms. Many minutes passed without a word from Lothíriel; a deep frown creased the lines of his forehead. He was taken aback by her trembling body and the dampening patch at the breast of his tunic.

"Why do you weep, my lady? Surely these should be days of joy," grasping Lothíriel's shoulders, Elfhelm gently held her back and observed the fresh tears brimming within her clear blue eyes. As gently as he could, he wiped away the silver stains upon her sallow cheeks with the calloused pads of his thumbs. She looked pale and sickly... Unhealthy. And it worried him beyond belief. "Come," he continued softly, "I would have you show me the face of the King's heir. My men and I have just returned from the borders where we have been securing the eastern lands. It was remiss of us to miss the naming ceremony and the heir's blessing."

It was the wrong thing to say.

Elfhelm's stomach dipped in apprehension as he watched her lips part in shock.

"You do not know?" Lothíriel whispered to herself as she stepped away from his comforting embrace.

"What is it that I do not know?" He smiled with uncertainty, trying to alleviate the trepidation within his heart.

Lothíriel turned away from him, her shoulders shaking as she bowed her head to the ground in submission. It was not the pose of a powerful Queen and it disturbed Elfhelm to see her so defeated. "My lady?" standing behind her, he placed his hand upon her shoulder as she quivered with sorrow. It radiated from her body in waves and engulfed his entire being.

"The babe did not survive the birth."

Elfhelm blinked, thinking that the words he had heard were false. "My lady?" When she did not reply, he tried to rouse her from her thoughts, "Lothíriel...?"

A sob fell from the crevice of Lothíriel's lips. She roughly pulled his hand away from her shoulder and steeled herself against the onslaught of despair that threatened to claim her in it's icy grasp.

The burden within Elfhelm's heart grew as she pushed him away—away from her arms and away from the comfort of her presence. His brow furrowed in thought, "Where is my lord-king?"

He needed to see Éomer, he needed to ascertain that his friend and King was well... To see if he had recovered from his wounds and the new tragedy that had befallen the Royal couple.

The warriors of Rohan had only been greeted with silence as they returned to Edoras from their patrols. From that moment on, he knew that the King's wounds had not healed and that he was still seriously injured. The somber atmosphere was oppressive and suffocating. But he could never fathom that he would have been greeted with the knowledge of the heir's death. He could not help but wonder how Éomer was dealing with the news. If his wife's pain was just a glimpse, Elfhelm dreaded to see the King's. He knew that Éomer could be very difficult to deal with when he was grieved and that the King flailed in his sorrow. This, Elfhelm knew from experience.

Steeling himself against the sorrow that threatened to bury him, Elfhelm once again took the quivering Queen into his arms and held her. Time became insignificant as he offered her the comfort she obviously had not received from her husband. The seconds and minutes soon became meaningless; endless in their eternity and the utter despair that clung to the woman that was blanketed within his embrace.

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Lothíriel sniffed absently as she finally pulled away from the arms that offered her nothing but a reprieve from the constant torture and anguish her heart endured. "Elfhelm," she began bravely, "There is something you must know. None outside of the Golden Hall know of the King's plight. But I must tell you and implore that this news does not leave Meduseld."

Elfhelm inhaled sharply. Was his lord-king on the verge of losing his life? He prayed to Béma that Éomer was well; his grief would have known no bounds had the King been beyond salvation.

When Lothíriel did not speak, he placed his hands upon her shoulders. "Speak, my lady, for I cannot bear your silence."

The Queen of Rohan stiffened under the horse-lord's intense gaze. "Éomer... He is not the man you have come to know, but the child you once knew."

"You speak in riddles!" Elfhelm exclaimed, baffled by her words.

"Gleawman," Lothíriel started as Elfhelm frowned deeply, recognising the Royal healer's name. "Gleawman and I made a discovery about the King's condition."

"What discovery?" He asked with uncertainty.

Lothíriel inhaled deeply. "The inflictions Éomer received upon his head caused damage to his mind. He has reverted back into the years of his childhood and he has no memory of us... Of me."

Elfhelm gaped openly at his King's wife. "Surely, it cannot be!"

"It is," she replied bitterly. "It is true, although I wish that I could say I speak falsely; I do not. He has lost his senses and we do not know when he will recover from his injuries."

"This is most unhappy news," Elfhelm murmured to himself, withdrawing his hand's away from Lothíriel's shoulders. "How is he faring?" He asked suddenly, causing Lothíriel to jump.

"I know not. I have not the courage to seek him out since the loss of..."

"Ah... Indeed." Elfhelm could not stop himself from speaking further, "Is that wise?"

Lothíriel shook her head desolately, "Before my father left, he encouraged me to go to him. But I cannot. I cannot bear to face him, knowing that we have lost our child. He saw me before—but I have no doubt in my mind that he will ask questions as to the whereabouts of the babe. And I have not the strength to answer them." The tears she had been trying to keep buried, resurfaced with an astute vengeance. "How can I inform him in such a way? His own child is lost, and he himself is but child in his mind. Death should not stain a child's heart and Éomer is no exception."

"My lady," Elfhelm began softly, "He is _not_ a child."

Lothíriel glanced sharply at Elfhelm.

He continued, nevertheless. "Éomer is a strong man; he is our King and he will persevere and regain his senses. You must not treat him as though he is already lost to us!"

"He _is_ lost, Elfhelm!" Lothíriel pulled away completely from his soothing arms and began to pace the room of the private study she had acquired after Éomer's supposed death. "How can you say this? How can you possibly understand his condition! You have been away too long to speak thus, Marshal."

"And how can you have so little faith?" Elfhelm accused hotly, his temper quickening at her loss of hope. "I have been in countless battles, years before you have lived, my lady. I have seen atrocious crimes, fell deeds and have been witness to many deaths that no amount of grieving can absolve. I too have experienced many battle wounds, inflicted upon my person and that of my comrades. Do not tell me that I do not understand his condition, for I understand it all too perfectly! I have seen many a man afflicted with much worse and I tell you this; Éomer _will_ strengthen and return to you. You will regret casting him aside in such a cold manner ere that day arrives at your door."

She stilled.

His angry words reverberated through the very pores of her soul, chilling her to marrow of her bone and beyond. Was Elfhelm correct in his words? Was she being far too dismissive? Of course she was! And the brave horse-lord spoke truthfully. O, her stupidity knew no bounds! She cursed herself for her weakness, as more of her tears spilled forth onto her angled cheeks. She needed to spend time with her husband, to encourage him to recover. Had not Gleawman spoken to her of this? Had he not told her to have hope? How could she have forgotten his words; stupid, foolish girl! Aye. That is what she was. A girl that had no business ruling a country, no business at all. A girl that did not understand the meaning of love and faith and... Hope. Her hope had been scattered to the wind at the death of her child. Every night she traversed the halls as a ghost of her former self, neither aware nor alive in her heart. The silent ghost of Meduseld.

When she did not respond, Elfhelm grimaced and sighed as he lowered his head and closed his jade eyes to the world around him. "I have spoken out of turn yet again," he said gently, "Forgive me, your majesty."

The Marshal of the East-mark froze as he felt delicate fingers upon his cheek, raising his head. He opened his eyes and held his breath at the devastating, saddened smile that was offered to him by the hardened woman.

"Are you a friend to me, Elfhelm?"

"Always," he whispered.

Lothíriel's smile grew. "Then you need not ask for my forgiveness. You spoke wisely and I do not doubt your words."

He exhaled with relief, blinking as the searing heat of her palm remained firmly against his cheek. "I am sorry," the bleakly murmured words spilled from his lips before he could stop them.

Lothíriel's brow dipped in confusion, "Sorry?"

Elfhelm's mouth ran day. He licked his lips nervously before answering. "For your loss of the babe. That is one grievance that I can never be able to fathom." He placed his own hand upon her other cheek and once again, deftly rubbed away the silent trace of tears that lingered upon them.

"It hurts, Elfhelm," she admitted quietly as she took comfort in the rugged palm cupping her face.

"I understand," came the whispered response.

"Every day I endure another battle, another war, another struggle to rise from my bed and join the land of the living. There is an echo in my heart—a deep cave that has been carved from the infelicity of her absence..." Elfhelm watched as Lothíriel smiled at an unseen presence. "The babe was a girl-child. _My_ child, my little girl. And now we have lost her," she frowned, "Rohan has lost it's Shield-maiden and Éomer and I must suffer the loss of our daughter."

"Do not allow your agony to cloud your heart," Elfhelm urged, "There is still a loved one that will need you ere the time comes for him to return. And at the end of all things, he will be with you in the bitterest of moments and he will support you when your grief and anguish will become too much to bear... As will I."

She looked at him then. _Really_ looked at him. Her lips parted in awe as she embedded every detail and contour of his face. "You will?"

"Yes."

Lothíriel blinked heavily as Elfhelm's soft lips encountered her brow. She closed her eyes in relief; her heart lightened with joy to know that this strong man would forever remain by her side—silently offering his companionship, support and wise words to her. She cherished his presence and it made her love him all the more dearly.

"Elfhelm, I thank you for—" Lothíriel's words of gratitude were lodged in her throat as her companion drew her closer and gently brushed his lips against hers.

She swallowed.

The sounds of the world around her came to a crashing, mind-numbing halt. There was nothing to say, as no words were needed to convey the depth of love and affection the Marshal harboured for the Queen of Rohan. And so, she allowed his lips to press deeply upon hers, imprinting their touch within her soul, memorising every moment of his breath and every caress of his lips against hers. She allowed herself the comfort of his touch; a man's touch. A touch that spoke of no sin, for it was conveyed with the deepest concordance and contrition.

And then, it ended—all too soon.

Lothíriel pulled away silently, placing her lips upon Elfhelm's cheek in one final return gesture of the acceptance, love and friendship that Elfhelm had offered her with that kiss.

From deep within her heart, she found the courage and will to raise her mouth her to the folds of his ear and whisper her next words;

"It can go no further."

She had found her solace.

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**Added Notes:**I must be the world's stupidest woman. I came on today to type and update chapter 14 and guess what? I realised that I hadn't even put up, nor typed chapter 13. Wow! Somewhere, in the back of my mind I honestly thought I had updated. That just goes to show the madness of my life. Am I a week behind? Gosh, I feel silly now. I am sorry that my daftness caused everyone to wait so long. Hopefully this story will be finished before the 24th, as I will be going on holiday soon and will be too busy to continue with my fics during the summer period. Fingers and toes crossed that _'By the Sea_' will be completed beforehand.

Our favourite King will make an appearance in the next chapter, have no fear. I hope you enjoyed this.

Thanks to all the reviewers, your support is much loved and appreciated!


	14. Mean Old Lady

**Important Author's Note:**

Creativity can be vast and endless like the oceans of earth; or it can be like a clogged toilet. After I returned from the summer break, mine turned into the damn toilet. The plot was there but the words were not. I just couldn't get past this mental block in my mind that sprang up every time I tried to sit down and type this chapter up. I scrutinised every word, every sentence and deleted at least twenty rough drafts of this chapter simply because it did not feel right. But after receiving a couple of reviews (Eminath ;D) and an e-mail that gave me a much deserved hard kick up the backside, I forced myself to sit down and type. They say that the first hurdle is always the hardest, but I think I've got over it and my flow of words for this story is returning as well as the encompassing presence of the characters.

I haven't abandoned this story and I apologise for leaving you—the readers—dangling and going missing. I hope you can forgive me.

;bows head in shame and offers cyber Mcvities biscuits to everyone;

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**By the Sea.**

Chapter Fourteen: Mean Old Lady.

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_Previously..._

"Elfhelm, I thank you for—" Lothíriel's words of gratitude were lodged in her throat as her companion drew her closer and gently brushed his lips against hers.

She swallowed.

The sounds of the world around her came to a crashing, mind-numbing halt. There was nothing to say, as no words were needed to convey the depth of love and affection the Marshal harboured for the Queen of Rohan. And so, she allowed his lips to press deeply upon hers, imprinting their touch within her soul, memorising every moment of his breath and every caress of his lips against hers. She allowed herself the comfort of his touch; a man's touch. A touch that spoke of no sin, for it was conveyed with the deepest concordance and contrition.

And then, it ended—all too soon.

Lothíriel pulled away silently, placing her lips upon Elfhelm's cheek in one final return gesture of the acceptance, love and friendship that Elfhelm had offered her with that kiss.

From deep within her heart, she found the courage and will to raise her mouth her to the folds of his ear and whisper her next words;

"It can go no further."

She had found her solace.

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Seconds rolled by as Lothíriel remained in her embrace with Elfhelm. She felt her legs weaken as his moist lips brushed against her temple, kissing the area with a distinct reverence that seemed to speak volumes. His ministrations upon her raven locks were comforting as they brushed through the unbound strands, and she almost felt her eyelids droop due to his gentle actions. Eventually, her eyes snapped open as Elfhelm inhaled deeply, as though he were memorising every scent, every indentation of her body that was moulded to him.

She had been right. This could, most assuredly, go no further.

With a heavy sigh and as gently as she could, Lothíriel took a step backwards from the stricken figure of her dear friend. She looked upon him with ice blue eyes of compassion, for she too had felt the tug of temptation vying to bind them together without thought or reason. It lingered heavily between them; that sweet fruit of desire. It was so tempting... So tempting to reach out and taste what had been offered to her. The Queen of Rohan wanted nothing more than to run back into his strong arms and seek her comfort in their embrace. She wanted nothing more than to be loved as a woman should be loved.

But something stopped her. She could not do it.

Not to herself, not to her husband, nor _him_. Elfhelm was too good a person. He deserved every respect and obeisance that a man could be bestowed. He deserved to be coveted by a woman that could ultimately give him more than she could. A woman that could love him more than she could. Her heart now belonged to her husband, even if she did not know or acknowledge it fully. Though, perhaps, in another world and time, she may have come to deeply love this man before her. At present, their souls were inextricably bound together, though she could not fathom why. She simply knew that Elfhelm was a man she had come hold in high regard and cherish with every breath of her body.

But in the end, it was the deeply rooted respect and love she held for her husband that momentarily quashed her yearning to seek out the Marshal for physical satiation.

At present, his troubled green eyes were overtly embarrassed by his own forwardness and Lothíriel felt nothing but empathy for him.

A moment passed as Elfhelm looked at her intensely.

"You will not have me..?" His hushed voice questioned severely.

In that one gesture, where his lips had come to touch hers, he had admitted to the love he bore for her within his soul. With his words, he had admitted to committing treason against his King, his friend and his brother in-arms. And yet he still wished to know if she would have him. If she _could _ever have him.

She could almost detect the slight quiver in his baritone voice. She could almost _feel _the understanding emanating from him. But he still asked, as he could do nothing else in light of his bold actions.

Slowly, Lothíriel raised her head high as only the Queen of Rohan could. "I will not have you. I _cannot_." And though her voice trembled like a fragile leaf still clinging to life in the winter's chill, she was firm in her conviction. Her heart clenched with sorrow as Elfhelm lowered his head in submission at her poignant words.

"You are most wise, my lady," he murmured softly to the strangling silence of the room.

"Perhaps..." She started quietly, trailing off as his head snapped upwards once more and locked her blue eyes in a prison made from jade. "Perhaps, in another time and another place, I could have had you; Marshal of the East-mark. I could have loved you like I loved no other. For you are a man worthy of such love and devotion as to make any woman's heart leap at the promise of spending their life you. We are much alike, you and I, but I am bound to another and I belong to him. My world and duty revolve around him and I cannot bring myself to hurt the one I have come to cherish so dearly."

Elfhelm nodded solemnly. "Aye," his voice was heavy but soft. "I knew you would say as much."

With his defeated words, a tear fell from the bottom corner of her eye as her head hung morosely. Before it could spill to the ground, the Marshal of the East-mark swiftly reached out and caught it upon the flat plane of his rugged palm. It pooled in his large hand like a tiny crystalline lake made from the rich rivers of the earth. Silently, they stared at the fallen tear with an unspoken sorrow that seemed to linger between their hearts.

"I thank you for this gift," Elfhelm whispered, closing his fingers around the tear. "And I thank you for your honest words... But I must know one thing, if you will allow it."

"Ask, and you shall have your answer," Lothíriel said quickly.

"Did you love him?"

She froze as looked at Elfhelm questioningly.

"Did you love him when you were wed?"

Could she answer truthfully? Could she ever recall to Elfhelm the time when her husband's love had made her cringe? No. She could not be that brutally honest, no matter how much he praised her forthright nature. "What makes you think I did not?"

"When I saw you that very first day of the feast, dressed in a gown that seemed to be spun from the moon's pale beams, I saw a woman. A beautiful, frightened woman that stood _alone _gazing at a clouded sky when she should have been with her husband, celebrating their union. I saw her sadness and I felt it as if it were my own, beating within my own breast. I did not understand at the time but something shadowed your gaze and it made me wonder... It still makes me wonder; did you love him?"

"Nay," Lothíriel breathed, as if she were expelling years of torment and suffering with that one single word. "I did not." The shame in her voice was tangible and obvious to both occupants of the study. For how could she have ever rebuked and dismissed the love her husband offered to her? He had said that he loved her from the moment he saw her. But could it have been desire that formed Éomer's words of love in the beginning? She realised that it could have, though it seemed to change as they drew closer to one another; as they grew to _know _what lay in each of their hearts.

"And now?"

"I do not know," she answered as truthfully as she could. Though Lothíriel knew the truth within her heart, her mind had not come to accept it. So she gave the Marshal the only conclusion she could.

Elfhelm exhaled loudly, his breath rushing forth like the tide of a wave coming into the shore. At length, he raised his shoulders and stood tall and proud as he examined her crestfallen face. He could see her confusion as clearly as a finely cut diamond shining upon her fair brow. "You love him," he confirmed. There was a hidden pain within his voice that she could not hear but he strengthened himself against the agony that tore at his own heart as he forced her to admit what she hid herself from.

"I love Éomer, but I am not in love with him."

The Marshal smiled slightly. "My lady, I can say, with the greatest of convictions; that you are." He was prodding her to admit the latent feelings within her heart.

But Lothíriel was as skittish as a mare at the notion that she had come to _love _her husband as he had once proclaimed loved her. Her eyes flitted about the room in a frenzied dance of unease as she processed her own feelings and thoughts on the subject.

Elfhelm glanced at the window of the study when she made no move to reply. He decided it would be best to let the subject lie for now. "The hour grows late. Mayhap it would be best if I left with my men and move on towards Aldburg."

"Do not leave on my account," Lothíriel pleaded hastily. "Please... stay for a while longer."

"Are you certain?"

"Yes. I would like for you to remain in Edoras. Only until your duty calls you away again, of course," she added hurriedly.

He bowed. "I shall do as my lady wishes."

An awkward silence settled between them like the sensual touch of a lover. Lothíriel straightened out the fabric of her heavily embroidered pale blue dress as they stood quietly in each other's company. It had been so long... It felt like an eternity had passed since she had last seen Éomer. And she realised that she had missed him and his comforting presence.

So, instead of prolonging the awkward situation, Lothíriel smiled as serenely as her face allowed and took Elfhelm's hand, squeezing his warm fingers with an innocence that she did not feel. She mustered her courage to speak her next words. "It has been a month since I have seen Éomer... Will you come with me? Will you come with me to see him?"

Elfhelm regarded her with surprise before nodding stiffly at her request. "I would be honoured, my lady."

Silently, they left the room arm in arm, as protocol demanded. They did not speak of the actual kiss that had passed between them. How could they? Were there any words to convey the deeply ingrained emotion that sparkled between them? There were none. And so, it almost seemed as if their lips had never touched and the conversation that followed, had never occurred. But Lothíriel knew it had and it preyed heavily within the subconscious realm of her mind.

The stone halls were eerily quiet as they made their way towards the Healing Halls; the entirety of Meduseld had been slumbering under the wings of silence ever since Éomer's tragic return from the shackles of death.

Lothíriel peered down the empty hallway that was ablaze with orange and red light from the setting sun, as the rays shone through the continuous stream of windows. "I wish I had your strength and bravery, Elfhelm," she admitted quietly as she avoided his gaze.

"You are stronger than you seem to believe you are, my lady," the Marshal replied with a small quirk of his lips.

She laughed humourlessly at this. "I do not believe you."

"And why should you not?"

"If I had possessed strength and bravery like yours, I would not have avoided Éomer for this long... I feel ashamed of myself."

She heard him sigh heavily.

"Believe what you will, but I know the truth."

Finally, Lothíriel tilted her head and looked up at her escort with suspicion. "And what truth is that, my lord?"

Elfhelm glanced back down at her with a steady smile curving his lips upwards. "The truth; that you are brave... and perhaps the second most courageous woman I have come to know."

"Oh? And who is the first?"

"My mother," he replied dryly as he looked away.

For the first time in many weeks, she chuckled quietly at this, almost feeling lightened by his humorous words.

"Had another been in your situation," Elfhelm continued thoughtfully, "They may not have had the strength to see their duties through to the end. Yet you have found the will to rise each day and attend to the demands of this land. I am proud to call you my Queen and... friend."

It had been a long while since Lothíriel allowed herself to feel the twinkle of happiness that bloomed within her breast at Elfhelm's generous words.

And with those truthfully spoken words, they continued through the hallway in a relatively comfortable silence that had eluded them previously. It warmed Lothíriel's chilled heart completely.

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She raised her fist to the door of Éomer's chambers in the Healing Halls. Knocking softly, Lothíriel held her breath as she waited to see if her husband was present in the room. Even though she did not visit her husband, she knew of his routine and schedule and knew that it would be the time for his evening check-up with Gleawman.

She continued to knock but there was no answer.

Flashing a strained smile at Elfhelm, she knocked again, barely acknowledging the two Royal guards posted on either side of the doorway as they bowed at her. If they were present, then Éomer was still likely to be residing in his chambers. She wondered why no-one would come to the door. The thought that he may be elsewhere was dismissed from her mind. Gleawman was thorough in his dealings and he certainly would not have ignored the insistent knocking that came from Lothíriel's clenched hand. The healer knew that only Lothíriel would be bold enough to interrupt his examinations.

When the door remained firmly shut, Lothíriel sighed and moved to open it herself. The guards remained silent, knowing that their Queen needed no permission to see her husband.

Together, she and Elfhelm entered the chambers almost hesitantly.

Lothíriel's eyes scanned the large room before they finally came to rest upon her husband's large figure as he sat upon a high-backed chair by the window. His face was solemnly poised as he gazed out quietly at the planes of Rohan, with his chin resting in his palm. Lothíriel was surprised at this. This was not the same person she had come to know in the days before her labour and the imminent death of their child, had come to pass. The Éomer she'd spent time with had been vivacious and loud, if not a little boisterous in his childish ways. She wondered what could have made him so sullen and morose as to quieten his demeanour so drastically.

At length, her husband's name fell from her lips like a prayer to the Valar. "Éomer?" She was proud that her voice remained steady and in control. It did not convey the frantic tempest that invaded her heart as a result of his subdued manner.

He did not stir from his silent musings.

She exchanged a worried glance with Elfhelm. He returned her gaze with a raised brow; the concern in his green eyes was evident. There was something disturbing about her husband's behaviour. It seemed... So defeated. It was quite unlike Éomer to behave in such a way. Especially after he had awoken from his deep slumber.

Steeling herself against the panic that rose within her, Lothíriel moved away from Elfhelm's side to kneel before her husband. His body was twisted towards the tall window in the large seat of the chair that was placed parallel to the glass structure. She observed his profile for a few moments as Éomer continued to gaze out at the rolling planes of his home-land.

Lothíriel seemed to forget that Elfhelm was present in the room as she raised her fingers to gently touch the knuckles of her husband's hand. As he made no outward gesture to acknowledge her, she firmly held his hand that was resting against his tightly muscled thigh.

She was surprised when his fingers tightened around her palm, and equally more shocked when he pushed her hand out of his lap. It almost felt like her heart had fallen into her stomach. Blinking back her tears, Lothíriel built up the courage to reach out and capture his hand once more, only to have it pushed away again. He was refusing her, just as she had refused to see him after the death of their child. And she could understand that. But she would not back away without his forgiveness for her rash actions.

Breathing heavily, Lothíriel placed her hand over his once again, and refused to remove it when he tried to push it away for the third time. Still, he would not look at her, preferring to gaze out listlessly at the unchanging scenery. Biting her bottom lip, she forced herself to speak.

"I am sorry."

Her saddened words drifted between them, and as if they had been a key, Éomer shifted his eyes to peer down at her. There was still a form of innocence within their creamy brown depths, but there was also a great deal of unkempt fury and sadness. "Go away."

Lothíriel wanted to laugh when Éomer spoke to her, his face pouted and child-like as he stared at her with the anger of an infant. At least he had spoken. "Why do you wish for me to leave?" She asked softly.

"Go. Away."

But Lothíriel refused to back down. She owed it to him to remain by his side. "Please tell me. I will not leave until you do," she threatened cunningly.

"Because," he huffed quietly, crossing his arms with her hand still enfolded in his. Lothíriel did not allow herself to let go, even if it meant having her fingers crushed by the flattering large muscles of his arms.

"Because..?" She prompted gently.

"Because... Because—you are a mean old lady!" Éomer snapped with even more of a pout, if that was possible.

Her head rounded towards Elfhelm as he snorted quietly, trying not to chuckle. From her kneeling position, she sent him a silent glare that spoke of venegeance before returning her attention to her husband, who had barely acknowledged the Marshal's presence. "And why am I mean?"

Éomer's lower lip trembled, his anger vanishing with every soft word she spoke. Her gentle manner with him seemed to slowly melt away his anger and frustration. "You left me. You promised. You promised that you would look after me and... you still left me. Just like Mama."

Lothíriel hung her head in shame. It was true. She _had_ left him, even after she promised to look after him. All because of her selfishness and her own grief, Lothíriel had forgotten the most important person in her life. Her husband. He had needed her more than she needed to cater to her own sorrow. "I did not mean to leave you," she whispered apologetically. "And I am sorry... So very sorry. Can you ever forgive this mean old lady?" Her lips quirked in a hopeful smile.

He stared at her silently, unshed tears shimmering within his burdened eyes. The Rohan King chewed his lower lip thoughtfully. Minutes seemed to pass by as he thought to himself, struggling to come to a decision. Finally, he inhaled deeply and frowned to himself. "Only if you promise me something."

Lothíriel's lips stretched into a relieved smile. "What is the promise?"

Éomer's honey-brown eyes glittered as they suddenly came to life. It was a far cry from the downtrodden man she had spoken to only moments ago. "Promise me that you will take me to see the sea!" His eyes grew large and round as various thoughts stampeded through his mind. "I have never been there before and Gleawman said that you used to live there. Will you take me? Please, Lothíriel! Will you take me by the sea?"

Lothíriel's mouth hung wide open in utter shock at her husband's overtly grand request. This; she had not expected. The Queen of Rohan looked to Elfhelm with a bemused expression as Éomer's body twitched with hidden anticipation. The Marshal gestured for her to answer the question that had been posed to her on the moment of her husband's childish impulse.

It was at that time, Lothíriel realised something incredibly strange.

She could not refuse him.

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**Added Notes:** Éomer at Dol Amroth? Surely there's bound to be some mishaps... ;evil grin; Once again, apologies to all for the non-existent updates but the next chapter will be up in a few days to compensate for my disappearance.

Many thanks to everyone that took the time to review and wait patiently for my return.


	15. Midnight Madness

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**By the Sea.**

Chapter Fifteen: Midnight Madness.

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The flame of the candle in her hand flickered to an unsung melody. Lothíriel found herself sighing wearily as her footsteps fell lightly onto the cold stone floor of Meduseld. The darkened hallway was silent and oppressive but it fit her black mood perfectly. Days had passed and she found that she still could not sleep, even after she had mustered her courage to visit Éomer. She thought that by visiting him, she would at least be comforted from the restless nights that pursued her relentlessly. But it was not so. As before, she could not find a reprieve from the taunting dreams that seemed to haunt her sleep. And so, she was reduced to roaming the halls of her home for the many hours of the night, until she could no longer keep her eyes open and had to return to her chambers.

It was a blessing that her days, when the sun rose, were busy with the constant demands for her attention that she had no time to ponder the nightmares that assaulted her.

Luckily, she was kept even more busy by fulfilling her husband's wish and carrying out the travelling arrangements for their trip to Gondor.

The same evening of Éomer's request, she had sent out a dispatch to her father and informed him that it was time for the King and Queen of Rohan's state visit to Gondor. She knew that her father would decipher the true meaning of the letter; that she and Éomer would be visiting for far more informal reasons.

Lothíriel had not realised, until her husband made his request, that she missed her home by the sea dreadfully. Her home had now become a place of healing, a haven in which she could retreat from the tiresome duties of the court in Rohan. It would prove to be the perfect getaway for her and her husband and she knew that Éomer would enjoy his time there. His excitement for going to Dol Amroth had been blatantly obvious. She still could not think of him as anything more than a child but due to Elfhelm, she held onto her hope that one day he would return to her. Her husband had been growing increasingly agitated at being confined in the Golden Hall. The time they would spend in Dol Amroth would be good for him. And her.

But there was also a question of visiting Minas Tirith. Lothíriel understood that no state visit to Gondor could occur without going to the White City. It was the seat of power in Gondor and to enter the country without paying respects to the King and Queen would prove most remiss of them. The only other people that knew of her husband's condition outside of Meduseld was King Elessar and his wife Arwen Úndomiel, because she knew that he and her husband were very good friends. And though they would understand why she chose not to greet them in their city, she knew that the King's advisors and court lords and ladies would not be so forgiving.

So Lothíriel resigned herself to sending a notice to the King of Gondor, informing him about their upcoming trip and expressing her wish to keep their arrival in the White City as quiet as possible. Her party would be making a round trip to Minas Tirith from Dol Amroth. They would be travelling to Dol Amroth through a secret pass in the mountains, one that only her advisors knew was present; it would cut the time of their journey in half. From Dol Amroth, they would journey to Minas Tirith and return to Rohan via the White Mountains once they had paid their respects. Only a handful of people would know that the King and Queen of Rohan were coming to call upon Gondor's King. It would not do to draw unnecessary attention towards her husband's... delicate condition.

Again, Lothíriel found herself sighing.

There was so much that needed to be done for this impromptu trip! Documents had to be signed and stamped, food for the journey had to be arranged with the cooks of Meduseld, the trunks for clothing needed to be excavated as well as the carriages and guards that needed to be employed to escort the Royal party; Éomer would not be fit to ride upon his beloved horse, Firefoot. She had spent the day arguing about this particular problem with him. He was adamant on journeying to Gondor upon a horse, but Lothíriel had flatly refused. She would not put him in danger by exploiting his ignorance. No. He would ride with her in a carriage led by horses and he would not usurp her decision.

A ghostly smiled flitted across her face as she recalled his pouting composure at the finality of her stern words. Valar, he had been so cross that he did nothing but stamp his foot and throw a tantrum for over an hour, making her late for an important meeting with his advisors. Only when Éomer realised that Lothíriel was not paying him any mind or attention, as she continued her embroidering, did he cease his childish antics. He huffed and puffed, fumed silently, but she was proud that she had not given in, if only to appease his outrageous behaviour. She now knew how her childhood nanny felt by caring for her and her brothers; exhausted and mentally drained!

Lothíriel squeaked suddenly with surprise as she felt her body collide with something hard. It was almost as if a stone wall was barricading the centre of the hallway. She froze, stiffening, as gentle arms caught her before she fell backwards onto the floor. The rush of sudden air caused the flame of the candle in her hand to extinguish before she could find out who was standing before her. Her eyes searched frantically for the face belonging to the hands that gently held her. The hallway had become shrouded in an ebony blanket that not even the light of the stars could pierce through it, making it all the more difficult for her to identify the strong, lean figure that was pressed tightly against her.

At least she knew it was a man.

She shivered slightly as the shadowed figure hunched down to her height, his breath caressing her cheek innocently. It seemed that they too were trying to make out her form.

"My lady? Lothíriel?"

Lothíriel breathed a sigh of relief, closing her eyes as she recognised the quietly toned masculine voice. "It is I, Elfhelm," she assured him through her whisperings.

His hands lingered upon her arms for the barest of moments before they were abruptly removed with silent embarrassment. He did not step away from her as she thought he would, for it seemed that with his nearness he could almost see her through the darkness. Not for the first time, Lothíriel wondered why the torches of the halls were not continually lit and watched throughout the night. It would be so much easier for her if she did not have to carry around a candle on her nightly vigils.

"Why are you not asleep, my lady?" Elfhelm asked softly, his breath still near quivering against her cheek.

For some reason, whether it was because of the pitch black surroundings or her unending weariness, Lothíriel answered truthfully. "I could not; I am plagued with nightmares and I found it difficult to sleep. But why are you not at rest, my lord, Elfhelm?"

There was a brief silence that seemed to speak volumes, though Lothíriel did not know what it could mean. "... I find no peace in the Golden Hall this night." Elfhelm's hushed voice sent a shiver tingling up her spine. Her tiny shoulders shuddered and the slight movement sent the Marshal into action. "You are cold?" She was about to answer but she felt a heavy cloak settle upon her shoulders. There was no time to give her thanks as Elfhelm continued to speak, "This should keep you warm, my lady. But perhaps it would be best for you if I returned you to your chambers? They are considerably far from here..."

Lothíriel frowned, flustered by Elfhelm's words. "Nay, I am quite near my chambers, I assure you."

"But the Royal rooms are not in this wing?" He sounded surprised.

"I have acquired rooms beside Éomer in the Healing Halls. Until he does not recover, I will remain there. The Royal chambers hold no appeal for me. at present."

"Ah..."

A moment passed where both Marshal and Queen were lost in their own thoughts. Lothíriel fingered the cloak around her shoulders and smiled at Elfhelm's consideration. "Thank you for the cloak." Though she was not cold by any means, his gesture had been thoughtful and kind.

"You are most welcome."

She could hear the gentle smile in his voice and it warmed her heart more than any cloak could. "You must forgive me Elfhelm. I asked you to remain in Edoras but I have been unable to call upon you these last few days; most remiss of a host, don't you think?"

He chuckled quietly. "The people of Meduseld have been more than attentive, my lady. I will not hold it against you."

"That is good. I would be disappointed to learn that they were not." Deftly, she took a step back from his sturdy frame and offered a shallow curtsey, feeling less troubled at having spoken with Elfhelm. "Perhaps you are correct," she said teasingly, "I should return to my rooms and try to rest."

"Then allow me to escort you there." Gallantly, Elfhelm took her arm and began to lead her down the hallway.

After a few steps, he stopped and looked down at her shadowy frame with a wry grin that she could not see but knew was there. "It seems that I do not know the way to your chambers, my lady. The Healing Halls are long and incomprehensible in their twisting corridors and numerous rooms."

Lothíriel laughed at him. Through the darkness, she could see the glint of bashfulness within his eyes. "You would have me lead you instead, Marshal? Really. In all my life, I have never heard of a lady escorting a man! Perhaps I should take _you_ to your rooms and save you the trouble of becoming lost in these halls," she mocked jokingly.

The slight movement in the air indicated that he had lowered his head shamefully. "Ai," he sighed sadly, "I see that you will not let me live this down if I agree. Very well; please escort me, my lady, as it seems that I am not man enough nor capable to lead you to your required destination. These eyes are getting old and cannot see as well as they used to in the dark."

Lothíriel bit her lip, suppressing the bought of giggles that were dangerously close to spilling from her lips. "Hush," she reprimanded softly as she patted his arm. "You are barely forty and yet you still think that you are as ancient as an Ent!"

"I would make a good Ent," Elfhelm surmised thoughtfully. "I am tall enough."

His words were enough to finally make Lothíriel burst out into quiet laughter as she lead them down the halls of Meduseld, towards the guest quarters where Elfhelm's chambers stood. "Yes, you would," she agreed with amusement. "But I am afraid you are not quite so leafy as you need to be, if you wish to become an Ent."

"Mayhap you will do me the honour of sewing leaves to my person and planting me in the soil of Fangorn?"

Lothíriel shook her head, feeling giddy and delighted at the ridiculousness of the conversation. It had been so long since she had such a... silly conversation.

She had no time to answer him as they were rapidly approaching Elfhelm's rooms. They halted in front of the doorway and Lothíriel moved to curtsey again. But this time, she was stopped by his hands upon her shoulders, holding her in place. She stilled, feeling her heart begin to pound as she moved to peer up at his face through the obsidian night. The air around them grew tense and quiet for the first time since they had collided in the hallway. She did not like the sickening sensation it was causing within her stomach.

"Did I forget to mention that it is not becoming for a Queen to lower herself before a soldier?" Elfhelm finally murmured to her.

Why did it feel like his words were masking something that Lothíriel could not decipher?

"Can she not lower herself before a friend that she respects and admires greatly?" She asked bravely.

"What am I to you?"

"A friend. A most beloved friend."

He gazed at her intently... silently.

Lothíriel tried to swallow the lump that had suddenly formed within the column her throat. His hands seemed to burn into the cloth of the evening gown that rested at her shoulders and she dare not move. Never before had she felt this... this coiling in her abdomen, this tightening in her body. It was frightening, but she did not show it. She did not show how his touch could affect her so deeply. It was not right; this strange, wonderful and new feeling.

She knew that she must find the strength to hold back. But she was finding it extremely difficult as Elfhelm gazed down at her through misted eyes of need. No one had looked at her like that before. No one.

The starlight from the window opposite the doorway seemed to illuminate the green stones of his eyes, casting an eerie glow upon them that seemed to beckon her closer.

Unaware of her actions, Lothíriel stepped forward, into his arms and into his life. His hands tapered down to her waist, lightly holding her slight frame against the massive structure of his tall, fiercely muscled body.

Their eyes held one another in a silent dance of emotions that was heartbreaking to witness. And before Lothíriel could protest, Elfhelm's head lowered to hers of its own accord. The gentle insistence of his lips impressed upon her own, forced her to relax into his soft embrace as he moved to press her back against the doorway of his chambers. She sighed, her knees trembling whilst his tongue parted her lips, drawing out a low and appreciative moan from deep within her throat.

Gods, it felt so wonderful that Lothíriel did not even realise the severity of her actions as Elfhelm drew her deeper into his arms, still pressing her further back against the wooden door.

His lips were causing her body to sing in response and gradually, the gentle ministrations of his tongue grew more heated.

All too soon, Lothíriel felt her eyes flutter open in horror as Elfhelm froze and pulled away slightly at the sound of a throat clearing. She blinked for several moments, staring up at the collar of his tunic as the Marshal stiffened. It was then that Lothíriel realised the cause of this.

The figure of a man standing behind, to the right of Elfhelm, looking at them with obvious shock and disapproval even though she could not make out his face. He was carrying a flickering torch and Lothíriel grew worried that he had seen her. What had she done? Foolish girl! She was jeopardising everything with this slip in her character. How could she be so reckless? How could she allow him to kiss her so? She was dismayed at the thought of what she had done and what she could have gone on to do... Forcing the bile back, Lothíriel lowered her head in shame as a barrage of tears came to her eyes. She cursed her folly.

"May I have a word with you, Marshal Elfhelm?... Alone."

Lothíriel's bruised lips parted with shock as she recognised the voice. It was cold and deep, utterly unforgiving. The voice belonged to Gamling; the Captain of the King's Royal Guard.

She prayed that he had not seen her tiny frame behind Elfhelm's.

The Marshal of the East-mark turned slowly towards the voice, shielding her from Gamling's view. Without preamble, without a word, Lothíriel scurried out from behind Elfhelm and quickly made her way back to her chambers with a lowered head, praying that the Captain had not recognised her.

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Unfortunately for the Queen, Gamling had recognised her all too well. He frowned to himself as he noted the shame and tears glistening upon her face as she hurried away from his stern countenance. He could not blame her for making a hasty retreat. Though he was older by half a decade than the Marshal before him, he was still a formidable force to be reckoned with. Tall, broad-shouldered and fair-haired, as was the will of their race, Gamling was no different in stature and command to Elfhelm. And he felt that it was his duty to intervene a national disaster, out of loyalty to the throne and loyalty towards Elfhelm's house. He would put an end to this dalliance once and for all, swiftly and quietly, without the interference of any other.

The young Queen was impressionable; she could easily be swayed by kind and gentle words in her delicate condition.

Elfhelm, however, should have known better.

And Gamling was clearly disappointed that the Marshal had taken advantage of the Queen's vulnerable state. Though he did not deny she was at fault as well, being older and wiser, Elfhelm was more suited to bear the brunt of Gamling's reprimanding words.

He waited patiently for the Marshal to open the doors of his chamber, his blue eyes flashing dangerously against the flame of the torch in his hand. Neither noticed the lingering, feminine shadow that had hidden itself between an arched doorway further down the hall. As silently as he had appeared, they both entered the room. Deftly, Gamling placed his torch into the holder of the wall and turned quietly towards the agitated Marshal that was now pacing the width of the room.

At his stare, Elfhelm ceased pacing and turned to face the Captain with a baleful glance.

Gamling returned the look with a shrewd snort. "How long?" His voice was quiet and menacing as he stared at his old friend and acquaintance. Their fathers had been comrades in-arms and even due to the age gap, both Marshal and Captain had grown to become quite close friends in the years they had known one another.

Had he caught another man in Elfhelm's situation, Gamling was sure he would not have been so lenient in his choice of words. With hawk eyes, he watched as Elfhelm sighed morosely. It irked him to no end that Elfhelm chose not to reply. "How long have you been bedding her?" He reiterated coldly, when no answer came to fruition.

An appalled look crossed Elfhelm's face, and Gamling was relieved to see it, though he did not show it. "I have never—!" Elfhelm almost shouted, "I mean, we have not..." He trailed away in defeat.

"Good," Gamling hissed, "And it shall not go any further. Am I understood, Marshal?"

Elfhelm nodded in shame but could not help whispering, "I did not mean to... It happened without my realising it. If I had been aware—I would not have." He sighed heavily and brought the pads of his hands to his eyes. "Béma, Gamling, what is wrong with me? It seems that she brings out the worst in me... I cannot help it! Everything about her... Her eyes, her hair, her scent—"

"Have you gone mad, man?" Gamling interrupted furiously. He had heard enough. "This is insanity! If you wish for a good tumble in the hay then I suggest you visit a damn brothel."

"I do not want a whore, Gamling," Elfhelm snarled threateningly. "I want _her_! I need her."

"She is the King's _wife_, you fool! Do **not** do this to yourself Elfhelm, you are setting yourself up for disaster."

"Do you think I do not know?" Elfhelm growled. "Do you honestly think I would be so foolish as to put my position, my house, my title in jeopardy if I could prevent it?" His breathing grew heavy and deep as he forced out his next words desperately, "But I have fallen for her. Against my will, against my reason and against my better judgement—I have come love her, Gamling. _I love her_." His voice cracked and along with it, his heart.

There. He had said it. Gamling felt his heart grow cold at the admission. "A fool in love, is still a fool in life, Elfhelm!" He snapped ruthlessly. "She will be your death if you continue in this manner!"

"Then so be it," Elfhelm concluded stoutly.

"Stop it! Stop this nonsense, at once!" The Captain was on the verge of shouting out at this madness. He marched up to the younger man and pushed him roughly into the wall, as though he was trying to push some sense into him. His fiercely glittering blue eyes were level with the defeated jade orbs that stared back at him. "I cannot allow you to do this. Not to yourself; nor to her. She does not belong to you," he added, his tone softening. "She belongs to the one we serve, the man we call our King and saviour! Will you betray him? Can you betray your friend and brother in such a manner?"

Elfhelm's shoulders sagged slightly as realisation sunk deeply into the cracks of his wounded heart. "What am I to do?"

Gamling stepped back, his face blank, but he could not help the pity that stemmed from his eyes. "Go to Aldburg; be a true Marshal of the East-mark and do your duty to your King. That is all you can do."

The Marshal closed his eyes briefly at the truth of Gamling's words. "I must leave this place. I must leave her."

"Aye," the flaxen-haired man agreed solemnly. Gamling's expression grew distant and remorseful as he thought about a forgotten story that may help his friend to realise the brutal truth. "You know... I loved a woman once, before I wed Éadnes."

Elfhelm's eyes snapped towards the Captain. He regarded the older man with a thoughtful expression. "You never mentioned that."

Gamling frowned. "Nay, for it was not a love to be proud of, according to my father."

"Why?"

"She was of lower station," he replied flatly. "You know my father, as you know your own; you understand their dispositions and views regarding lesser folk. They were good men, but their minds were too clouded with their own importance."

Elfhelm made a sound of agreement. He motioned to the two chairs at the far end of the room, interested to hear Gamling's tale.

Once seated, Gamling accepted the mug of port that was offered to him. His raised his glass and saluted the Marshall before speaking again. "She was the daughter of a scullery maid in our home. Her name was Byrde. Béma, she was as the sun! Fair and proud and... glorious. I fell in love with her, much as you claim to love our lady-queen. For a time, our love grew and we were content to keep it from the eyes of others, unknowing of the consequences. Until the day my father caught wind of it. You should have seen him; the shame in his eyes knew no bounds. And for the first time in my life, I had done the one thing I swore never to do. I disappointed him. I brought shame to our family."

"What did he do?" Elfhelm leaned forward, knowing that this would be a tale of heartache.

"The only thing a father of his standing can do. He sent the maid and her daughter to another house and I never saw her again. Willingly, I married the woman he chose for me and though I grew to love Éadnes with every breath in my body, it will never be the same love I felt... The love I _feel _for Byrde. Love comes in many forms, Elfhelm, and the love I have for Byrde shall not fade until the ending of days. But it is in the past and I have left her there as I left her love."

"That is indeed a sad tale, my friend. Why did you never tell me? I must admit, I was surprised when you wed Éadnes. I never thought your father would _choose _a match for you but she is a good woman."

Gamling shrugged. "It was his way to atone for my indiscretion. But you are right. Éadnes has my love now and with it, I paid my dues to my father. And now, so must you."

Elfhelm sighed before lowering his head. "I cannot leave without her blessing. She has asked me to remain here..."

The Captain of the Royal Guard shook his head, snorting indelicately. "After this eve of madness, she will let you go. She must."

"I was asked to escort them to Gondor. I cannot do so now..."

"No, you cannot."

Breathing in deeply, Elfhelm exhaled longingly. At length, he whispered, "It will never disappear, will it?"

"What won't?"

"This ache in my chest; it hurts more than the poisoned blade of an orc."

A fleeting, pained smile creased Gamling's lips before it disappeared like the dwindling wind outside. "No, it won't. I will not lie to you Elfhelm. It will be with you, always. It will hurt like no weapon on this earth and fester inside you if you do not learn to care for it. Take it from one who knows..."

For a few moments, they looked at one another without speaking. And in the end, the ironic laughter that fell from their lips was inescapable.

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**Added Notes:** ;;squee;; I love Gamling... This in-between chapter came to me after I read Zee's story '_Rider of the Mark'_ for the first time. It is amazing and I apologise to her for being unable to review, but I will do so as soon as I can! It's an amazing piece of work and I am honoured that she even reviewed this story, so I thought it would be nice to deviate slightly and add in this extra chapter to the plot for her and honour good ol' Gamling. I hope you all liked it and please do not be so hard on our dear Lothíriel, she needs a little bit of loving! Our favourite King will be making an appearance in the next chapter and can you just imagine a child on a long journey? It's not going to be pretty.

Thanks once again to everyone that reviewed, your comments are so kind and generous!

**Translations of Rohirric Names:-**

Byrde — Noble.

Éadnes — Inner Peace.


	16. All the King's Horses

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**By the Sea.**

Chapter Sixteen: All the King's Horses.

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Lothíriel sighed heavily.

She closed her eyes as the pounding of her head grew to unparalleled heights. They had been on their journey towards Dol Amroth for a few days now, and it had been the longest few days of her life! She was utterly dismayed by the thought that there was another two weeks of this journey to endure. If the travelling party all had horses, and there were no carriages to handle, they would have reached her homeland of Belfalas in perhaps a week or so of hard riding. But because of Éomer's condition she would not risk it. She could not risk it.

Only the people journeying with her and court of Meduseld knew about the current state of his mind and health, and Lothíriel was not about to shout this news out from the roof-tops of the Golden Hall to the entire population of Edoras. She would not demoralise her husband's people any further than necessary. The country and population had suffered a great deal in the loss of King Théoden and his heir and son, Théodred. It would not bode well if they came to learn about their new King's current situation.

This was one of the reasons why the party travelling to Dol Amroth left under the dark cover of nightfall. No questions had been asked by the King's Royal guards and the nobles of Rohan, residing within the Golden Halls; all thought it would be best if the King left secretly without the pomp and ceremony of a Royal farewell. Of course, the people of Edoras and Rohan knew that their King and Queen were leaving to make a state visit to Gondor, but they did not know the _reason_ for their departure. And Lothíriel would not have it any other way.

With her eyes still closed, she leaned back into the comfortable seat of the carriage and lightly fingered the cloak sitting in her lap.

_Elfhelm's cloak..._

The following morning of their midnight meeting, he came to her and spoke candidly about the situation. She could not bring herself to look into his eyes as he spoke to her, but she could hear the pain that fringed his voice as Elfhelm asked to take his leave of Edoras—as he asked to take his leave of her.

Lothíriel granted his request without hesitation and without a single thought of doubt. She knew that she would not see him again until her husband had managed to recover. It would certainly be for the best that Elfhelm was gone and she was glad that they both had the strength to put a halt to the development of their relationship. He was a friend to her, but he was also her husband's friend and brother in-arms. Though she knew that he would be gone, from the manner of his speech and glance, his love was enough to save her from drowning in the despair that constantly threatened her mind. But Lothíriel would never again be so foolish as to jeopardise her union with Éomer. She was bound to him and so it would remain until the End.

However, the guilt that had been eating away at her heart did not cease. And even though she devoted herself to finding a way to cure her husband, she could not shirk away the tremendous pain in her heart every time she thought about her actions with Elfhelm. It was one of the reasons she kept the Marshal's cloak; to remind herself never to be so hasty and thoughtless in her doings.

The sound of a horse whinnying beside the window of her carriage brought Lothíriel back from the dark thoughts that encompassed her mind so completely. She pulled back the curtain and looked out curiously, only to find Gamling and his stead riding beside the Royal carriage at a comfortable and continuous pace.

He turned and looked down at her, offering her a steady nod and smile.

Lothíriel returned the gesture softly, before returning the curtain back to its original place; the inside of the carriage was once again shaded from the harsh sun.

"Aunt Lothíriel!"

She sighed wearily as her husband's voice rang out loudly for the hundredth time that day inside the quiet carriage. "Hush, Éomer," she reprimanded gently, "I can hear you well enough; you do not need to shout."

"... Sorry." There was a pause before she heard a shuffling sound coming from beside her. Before she knew what was happening, Éomer had placed his head in her lap and was looking up at her curiously. She smiled at him and rested her hand upon his forehead as he waved his beloved wooden horse in her face. Lightly, she stroked his hair and head in an effort to lull him to sleep. "Why can't we keep the curtains open?" He asked suddenly, causing her to jump.

"Because the sun is not forgiving and it will bother us."

Another pause followed before he spoke again, "Oh." Éomer chewed his lip thoughtfully. "Why will the sun bother us?"

"Because it is hot," she answered patiently.

"Why is the sun hot?"

Lothíriel's eyebrow quirked. "Because the Valar made it so."

"Why did the Valar make it so?"

The pounding in her head became more pronounced. "To keep us warm and give us light."

"Why does it bother us if it's there to keep us warm and give us light?" Éomer continued to ask as he examined the wooden horse that had been gifted to him by his healer, Gleawman.

Lothíriel blinked and pinched the bridge of her nose. "The sun is there to give us light and warmth when we need it, but sometimes it can be too warm for comfort."

"So then why does it _become _too hot?"

Lothíriel frowned, realising that the conversation had rounded upon itself to the beginning. As much as she adored and respected her husband, she was slowly losing her patience with his constant questioning. She knew that had their daughter survived, she too would be asking numerous questions to satisfy her curiosity once she came of age to speak. So, as much as she wanted to, Lothíriel could not hold it against her husband. But it was becoming overly taxing upon her nerves.

When she did not reply to Éomer's question, he began to fidget beside her. His head shifted upon her lap, digging into her thigh painfully as he tried to get comfortable. It was no mean feat, but soon enough he managed to find a position that satisfied him greatly. The only problem with it was the pain Lothíriel felt as his heavy head rested on only a portion of her lap. She winced and tried to hide it as he looked up at her impatiently.

"Well?" He prompted. "Why does it become too hot?"

Finally, Lothíriel felt her brow furrow in mild annoyance. "Honestly... I do not know, Éomer." It was a defeated answer and she knew that he could sense her thoughts. She had to give him credit, the man certainly likes a challenge no matter what his age.

He gave her a look of disappointment and she could not bear to see it upon his face. And so, she said, "Perhaps you can ask Gamling when we have stopped for the day and the camp has been set up."

Éomer's eyes twinkled with glee at the prospect of torturing the man that had been given the job of protecting him on the journey. Lothíriel felt slightly guilty for directing her husband's attention towards the Captain, but it soon passed as he began to fidget once more with barely contained energy.

"Can I please go riding outside?"

Lothíriel shook her head resolutely. "No. We have had this discussion before and I will not repeat myself."

"But why _not_?" He whined quite loudly, "Please Aunt Lothíriel—I will be careful, I swear it!"

"No, Éomer," she sighed as she patted his cheek. "It is too dangerous."

"Papa and Mama let me ride when they were here," he argued angrily.

"I am not your father nor your mother," Lothíriel reasoned as best she could.

"I'm glad you're not!" It was too much for his young mind to comprehend and she knew that she had pushed him into a corner. In frustration, Éomer reached up and pulled at the locks of her unbound raven black hair. "I want to ride with the Men!"

Lothíriel cried out in shock and pain as he tugged again. She glared down at his stubborn set face with fury. "That is enough now." Her voice held enough ice and steel to freeze him on the spot. With a frightened expression, he began to cry. Lothíriel, on the other hand, was not fooled by this ruse to divert her attention. "Cease your caterwauling!" She demanded, moving him off her lap so that he sat beside her—which only caused the tears to flow more profusely.

The Queen of Rohan faced her husband with a rather stern expression. "Éomer," she said with warning.

The sound of her hardened voice was enough for him to stop crying until only sniffling remained. He looked at her with a chagrined expression.

Once Lothíriel knew she had his full attention, she began. "We do _not_ conduct ourselves in that behaviour. Do you understand?" When he just stared at her sullenly, she reached out to hold his face in her hands, forcing him to look at her. "_Do you understand_?"

"Yes... I understand," he finally whispered with a small pout.

"Good. I will not have you making a bad impression upon my family in Dol Amroth. My father commands great respect at every turn and you are not to behave in such a manner before him. If you continue to express your anger in such way, I will be forced to send you back to Edoras with Gamling. Is that what you truly want?"

His eyes widened in startled confusion.

She knew how much he wanted to see the sea, but she would not give him that pleasure if he continued to act in such a brutish manner. He was of noble birth and would behave accordingly at Dol Amroth. Never in her life had she witnessed such spoilt manners, even from a child! If he was not her husband she would have reprimanded him even more but at the solemn expression on his face, she refrained from speaking any further.

"I'm sorry I hurt you, Aunt Lothíriel," Éomer mumbled as he lowered his head. "Please don't send me back. I really want to see the sea." As soon as he apologised, his lower lip and chin began to wobble and this time, she knew that his tears were real.

Her face softened minutely. "I accept your apology. It has been a long day for us both." As gently as she could, Lothíriel reached out and brushed away his tears. Sliding closer to him on the cushioned bench of the carriage, she held him silently.

They spent the rest of the afternoon in that very position until both husband and wife drifted off to sleep, lulled by the gentle swaying and rocking of the carriage.

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They stopped to set up camp just as the sun was beginning to set.

Lothíriel was glad to finally be out of the carriage as her backside was more than just aching, it was crying out for relief. She spent a few moments walking around the campsite area, stretching her legs and wearied muscles so that she would not feel any strain the following morning. As she walked, she nodded and acknowledged the Riders accompanying them on the journey. They murmured greetings to her as they bowed, aware of the protocol and propriety that was required of them. She felt a little saddened by their aloof manner, but she understood why they behaved in such a way. Appearances had to be maintained.

As she watched them set up the tents, Lothíriel spied a guard hovering beside her and shadowing her every move, from the corner of her eye. Gamling had appointed the guards accordingly and though she was grateful for this, she couldn't help but feel stifled by his constant observation of her actions. It was almost as if the guard thought that she would be foolish enough to leave the safety of the campsite!

Lothíriel was not as ignorant as they may have believed her to be. She knew about the dangers that still stalked the lands and she would not be so witless as to wander away from the relative safety of the camp.

Rolling her eyes at the ridiculous notion, she inhaled the fresh air that surrounded her. Gradually, her eyes drifted upwards so that she gazed up at the steep slopes of Ered Nimrais. It was wonderful to finally leave Edoras and travel. She had almost forgotten that there was a world outside of Meduseld...

The rising sound of chatter disrupted her wayward thoughts.

Lothíriel glanced over at the bustling group of women that had already started up cooking the evening's meal. She smiled faintly as she noticed that her handmaidens had also deigned to join the fray. They began to aid the clucking cooks and kitchen staff with the cleaning of vegetables and recently procured meat. She wished that she could join them, but knew that it was unthinkable for her to do such a thing. Laughing and chattering amongst themselves, Lothíriel felt slightly jealous of their freedom to do as they wished.

It was such a grand life! To be so care free, to have no responsibilities... If she ventured over to them, they would only be appalled at the thought their Queen had come to help. They kept Royal families on such high pedestals, it was no wonder that at times, great Kings often fell from grace. Nobles were to be catered to, looked after, but Lothíriel desperately wished to be treated as an equal. However, she would never find this amongst the general populace and many of the noble-born men and women were sometimes too stiff and formal to ever consider a close friendship with.

As she scrutinised the amiable women for a moment longer, Lothíriel lowered her gaze and returned to the tent that had been set up for her.

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They following days of their journey crept by slowly but surely. Lothíriel had occupied her husband's time by reading to him during the morning and afternoons of their journey and by sunset, she allowed him to be entertained by Gamling and a few of his men in front of the fire. Though she did not approve of this, Éomer seemed to enjoy his time with the Captain greatly and she could tell that Gamling was enjoying his King's company equally, whether he expressed his pleasure at this or not.

The few men that were allowed to remain in Éomer's company were loyal Gamling and to their King and Lothíriel knew they would honour him by remaining silent about his condition once they returned to Edoras and their respective homes. They treated him as she directed them to, not as a King, but as a younger brother and Rider of their éored. It amused the men and Lothíriel, to see their King in such high spirits amongst them, especially after the men had been kept from the truth for so long.

It was during the beginning of the second week, when the company had stopped for the day, that a stable-hand tapped nervously against the pole of her private tent. As Lothíriel rose from her cot, she called for him to enter and wondered what all the fuss could be about. Éomer was spending his time with Gamling's men, so she did not feel any apprehension as she looked kindly upon the stuttering young man. After a few moments, she bade him to speak slowly so that he could calm his erratic breathing.

"My lady-queen," the young man huffed worriedly, "Lord Gleawman has bid me to call upon you!"

Lothíriel frowned at the mention of the old healer's name. She had implored the experienced healer to join them on the journey so that he could continue his routinely check-up of her husband. Even though Éomer's body seemed to be healing well, she would not risk the chance of travelling without Gleawman; it was for her peace of mind. Besides, Éomer enjoyed the healer's company.

Feeling more than puzzled at being summoned by Gleawman, Lothíriel shook her head, "What is the matter?" The behaviour of the young stable-hand was becoming incredibly unsettling.

"It is my lord-king, Éomer... He—he tried to mount a Rider's stallion and could not control it! Lord Gleawman is tending to him in his tent and has called for you to join him."

Lothíriel felt her stomach drop at the words. In an instant, her world seemed to crumble at the very tips of her fingers. She had strictly forbidden him to go near the horses! How could he have escaped the watchful eyes of Gamling's men? How! "No... Not again," she whispered angrily to herself. "Not again!" The stable-hand's eyes widened with shame; he lowered his head and forced himself to remain in his Queen's presence, unwilling to see his King's wife in such a state of despair. If she could not hold on to her hope, then what hope was there for the rest of them?

Seconds of silence rolled past as Lothíriel bravely gathered her wits. Suddenly, she sprung into action by ordering the stable-hand to show her to Gleawman's tent. As they stepped outside, she barely noticed the convergence of people milling about outside their tents, speaking to one another in murmured voices as they watched their Queen being led by the ruffled, agitated stable-hand. They had all learnt about the accident, and many voiced their concerns about their King. It felt as if there would be no respite from the suffering their Kingdom had to endure.

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Lothíriel slipped quietly into Gleawman's tent. She had let the stable-hand return to his duties after giving him a severe scolding for being unaware of Éomer's presence amongst the battle horses. Apparently, he was not the only one to blame, but she accepted his excuse that the King had managed to acquire a Rider's helm as a disguise when he neared the area where the horses were being tended to and so, none had recognised him nor questioned his presence.

"How is he? Is he injured greatly?" She came to stand beside Gleawman as he remained bent down over her husband's slumbering form.

Removing his hand from Éomer's forehead, the healer straightened and sighed. "He was frightened and in shock when Gamling brought him to me. A few cuts and bruises but all in all, he is well. However, he has broken out into a fever; possibly from the fright he received and the disturbance caused to his previous injuries." Gleawman glanced at her from the corner of his eyes. "I am getting too old for this," he commented ruefully.

Lothíriel smiled, feeling immensely relieved that Éomer's injuries were not too serious. But, as always, she felt the smile slip away like the remnants of a fading twilight. "I told him to remain away from the horses. Why did he not listen?" Her frustration was evident to both occupants of the tent.

"Because he has the mind of a child," the healer answered, a little despondently. "He is as stubborn as he was when he first came to Edoras."

Lothíriel snorted unashamedly. "I want my husband back, Gleawman," she confided softly. "I want him well and by my side; not as a child, but as a man... As a King."

"Only time will tell, my lady. Only time will tell."

Lothíriel looked down at her husband's sleeping face. Breathing in deeply, she exhaled with pure and utter relief. He had escaped this unfortunate misadventure with only a fever and few minor scrapes and bruises. He would be sore in the morning, but it was no less than what he deserved. "You may sleep in my tent for your services, Gleawman. I will remain here, by his side."

"You should also rest, my lady," Gleawman prompted gently. "I will tend him through the night."

But Lothíriel was adamant. "No, I shall not rest this evening. It would be best if you received some respite for your troubles."

The healer bowed in her direction. "As my lady wishes." Before leaving, he saddled her with a bowl of water and cloth, instructing her to use it upon Éomer's forehead to cool him against the fever that raged through his body.

Once Gleawman had left, Lothíriel slumped down onto the stool that was positioned beside the bed. Reaching forth, she stroked away the pale wisps of flaxen hair that framed her husband's lean face. He looked did not look peaceful and calm in the repose of his fever. It reminded her that she was not dealing with a child, but a man.

Come morning and upon awakening, Lothíriel knew that she would not scold him for his disobedience. If she did and he recovered from this ordeal, he would never forgive her. She chuckled wryly as she pictured the horrified expression that would settle upon his face as he came to learn about his wild antics. No, he would not readily forgive her for behaving like a mother hen.

Gently, she pressed the cool wet cloth upon his forehead and watched him sleep through the haze of flickering light from the candles in Gleawman's tent.

Minutes and hours seemed to blend into one another before his fever had broken. The shivers that wracked his body soon abated and she tended to him for quite some time after them. But sure enough, Lothíriel somehow found her eyes drooping shut when she was satisfied that all would be well and she could no longer keep her exhaustion away.

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On the second night of her vigil, as her husband still remained in a deep sleep, Lothíriel was awakened by the sound of muffled groaning. She had ordered Éomer to be moved into their own tent so that Gleawman could regain his own quarters. Throughout the day, Lothíriel had kept a steady watch on her husband and his progress. He was considerably better than the night before, but she could not be certain.

Raising her head and looking at the candles, Lothíriel saw that the wax had melted half-way. She came to the conclusion that quite some time passed by since she had allowed herself to fall into a dreamless slumber.

Another groan caused her sit up straighter on the uncomfortable stool she had borrowed from Gleawman's tent. Her shoulders were knotted, she noted with dissatisfaction, and her backside felt like it was on fire—but none of that compared to the concern the Rohan Queen felt for her King.

Quietly, she leaned across her husband and took his hand as she placed her fingers upon his forehead. His body was cooling, much to her relief and he looked considerably at peace than before. With a relieved smile, Lothíriel watched as his eyes fluttered open, coming to fix upon her face with confusion.

As he studied her, Lothíriel's smile stilled when she continued to look down into his brown depths. They were unfamiliar and cold as they gazed up at her with suspicion. The grip of his hand tightened around her fingers, almost painfully, and she was forced to hold back a whimper. Gone were the charming eyes of the child she had come to know, gone was the gentle gaze of the man that had been her husband. And in their place, another pair of beguiling brown eyes stared back at her with disorientation and a fair amount of vexed suspicion.

"Who are you?" His harsh voice was deep, raw and guttural; unlike anything she had ever heard before.

For some inexplicable reason, Lothíriel knew not to trifle with this man before her; this man that she called her husband. "Lothíriel... Lothíriel of Gondor," her reply was barely whispered and she could see that he had to strain to hear her words.

"Lothíriel of Gondor," he repeated to himself unfamiliarly, still not relieving her crushed fingers from between his firm grasp.

Once again, his liquid brown eyes swept across her face daringly, causing a small thrill of suspense to wrack her tiny frame. She held her breath, waiting for him to continue, feeling nothing but joy and relief at the knowledge that her husband was a man once more. A man! Not a child, but a man... The only problem that presented itself now was his inability to recognise her. Sure enough, her hope began to diminish at the thought.

He did not recognise her.

With surprising speed, Éomer sat up and switched his painful grasp to her shoulders. It seemed that there was no escape from his rough handling.

When he next spoke, his voice was cold and steady, "How is it that a fair maiden appears suddenly, as if by magic, in my tent and by my side? Tell me, is this some trick of Saruman? Has the old wizard employed your feminine wiles to win the hearts of unsuspecting men?"

"N—No!" She managed to stammer unsuccessfully. Could it be that he did not recall the past few years of his life? "Éomer—!"

"—You know my name?" He interrupted, sounding equally surprised and incensed. "How can that be? Who are you? Speak, now!" A furious glint ignited within his gaze and for the first time since she had come to Rohan as Éomer's wife, Lothíriel knew true fear.

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**Added Notes:** I hope this chapter was a nice surprise for everyone! Once again, apologies for the slight delay but I have been insanely busy at work and at home. The next update will be sooner, because I would be classified as cruel if I left you on such a cliff-hanger evil grin

Thanks to _Hayley_, _wondereye_, _plzthx101_, _fandun_, _seyyada_, _Blue Eyes At Night_, _Sarahbarr17_, _X _and _LadyArian _for reviewing! I would give each of you some home-made brownies, but I think my dog managed to beat me to them.


	17. Learning to Remember

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**By the Sea.**

Chapter Seventeen: Learning to Remember.

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For a long while, as Éomer glared at her with all the fury of an orc in battle, Lothíriel struggled to find the words to speak. Her mind could not comprehend the complexity of this warrior—her _husband_—as he squeezed her shoulders dangerously, willing her to reply. She opened her mouth and only a rush of air seemed to escape the dense cavity. At that particular moment, her entire being seemed to be falling deeply into the pair of hazel brown eyes that swallowed her thoughts without mercy.

In time, she saw his impatience stirring and desperately did not wish to anger him further, but what could she say to the man that had been nothing but gentle and kind to her prior to this day? She had seen nothing of this dangerous beast that lurked beneath the shallow ripples of Éomer's calm façade. Of course, she caught only a glimpse of it during their first argument, but she had not been frightened as it had never surfaced with such vicious determination before this day.

Were she his foe, Lothíriel was certain that she would have turned tail and run all the way back to Mordor. It was a good thing she was not his enemy. But how in Varda's name would she convince him? He would think that her tales were nothing but imaginative lies...

Lothíriel started as he shook her again, wincing only when her husband's grip on her upper arms tightened to remind her of his presence and that she had yet to give him an explanation.

She sensed the underlying current of tension and fury beneath his threatening behaviour, but forced herself to remain stoic as she tried to muster up her ancestral courage. Swallowing, she wondered absently why her throat had become so parched like the barren lands of Harad, crying out for a drop of water to relieve them.

"My patience is growing thin, woman," Éomer hissed quietly, forcing Lothíriel to suppress the shudder of fear that meandered languorously up her spine.

Woman, indeed. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes emphatically, positive that such an action would not be welcomed by her husband in his present state. He certainly had thought much of himself as Third Marshal of the Mark to address her so callously. Unaware of her actions, Lothíriel allowed her tongue to dart out and lick her dry bottom lip. Her heart seized when Éomer's gaze drifted down to the very same spot, the brown pools of his eyes hardening as he studied the pouted petal lips that had seemingly caught his attention.

Lothíriel could not, for the life of her, understand why her cheeks were burning to the extent they were. It was unusual for her to feel so _aware_ of another man's presence. Not even with Elfhelm did she feel this, and he commanded a great deal of her attention.

The moment was gone in the next instant, almost as soon as she blinked and before she knew what was happening, Éomer was standing and striding towards the opening of the tent as he spoke, "You will remain here if you value your life, stranger. I will speak with my men and you better hope that one of them answers in your favour."

Lothíriel forced back a gasp; she could not let him leave! He would think himself mad if he saw that his éored had been replaced by a leisurely travelling party. What would he make of the wagons, carriages and women-folk? There was no doubt that he would be beyond consolation. And then where would she be?

Rising from her stupor, Lothíriel struggled to her feet and made a sound of frustration. Something she had not done in a long while. "Wait! Please!" She cried, hoping to cease him in his tracks. "Éomer!" Her plea fell upon deaf ears and as her husband neared the opening of their tent, Lothíriel felt her desperation soar beyond the seas of Ulmo.

Her last resort was to opt for shocking him. Perhaps then she could explain the goings on outside their tent. "None of your men will answer for me, my lord!" She announced boldly, "Because—I am your wife!"

Éomer stilled in his tracks, a hair's breadth away from the parting in the fabric of the tent. He was close to stumbling at her words, his back ramrod straight and shoulders set with a great burden. One that she had perhaps added to, but what else could she do?

Lothíriel could not have allowed him outside the tent, in good conscience, without telling him the truth. And the truth was the only redemption she could offer for her noncommital remark. She would speak the absolute truth, for there was nothing she could hide from this man. This warrior. Deception would not be the wisest course of action, she determined. And so, Lothíriel steeled herself against the overwhelming anxiousness that trickled down into the tips of her toes, willing her to run from her husband.

Ever so slowly, as Éomer turned to face her. Lothíriel bit her lip almost painfully and watched as his eyes narrowed in her direction. The expression on his face twisted with something akin to contempt. "This is a dangerous game you play, my lady," he uttered gruffly. "One that I am not willing to participate in... Choose your next words _carefully_."

Taking a deep breath, Lothíriel drew her hands to her stomach and began to wring her fingers in a motion that had been a familiar bad habit since her childhood. She had not done this in quite some time. "I speak the truth," she whispered despondently. His eyes flickered with disappointment and she forced herself to rush on, unwilling to give Éomer a chance to remark scathingly. "I _am_ your wife!" Again, she saw his nostrils flair at the assumption. But she was not one to be cowed into submission.

"I," she braved on, "Lothíriel, Princess of Dol Amroth and daughter to Prince Imrahil, wed Éomer son of Éomund in the Year 3020 of the Third Age, after the War of the Ring in 3019. The ring was destroyed and Sauron's realm fell; it was the end of March. Your uncle perished in the Battle of the Pelennor Fields. And ere he passed into the Halls of his forefathers, he named you his heir. King Elessar now sits upon the throne of Gondor with his wife Arwen Undómiel by his side, and is striving to rid the land of Sauron's disbanded army. We were wed, you and I, at the beginning of the Year 3020—"

"—You speak falsely!" He snapped, interrupting her speech. "It is the Year 3019; twelfth of March. My uncle is **alive**; I have marshalled the Rohirrim cavalry and we have set out to aid Gondor in their direst hour of need. Who are you to tell me any differently?" He crossed his arms, daring her to oppose his belief. "And I would never deign to be married. Nor could a simple Marshal be allowed to acquire the hand of a Gondorian Princess."

Lothíriel felt her heart go out to her husband. It seemed that his hearing chose to be selective, for he had not heard that his uncle had named him his heir. Her next words would surely cause a violent outburst if he understood their meaning, but he needed to hear the truth without hesitation. "Perhaps a Marshal can never be allowed... But a King certainly can." She raised her eyebrow at this and fixed him with a defiant stare.

Éomer faltered for a moment as confusion settled upon his fair but unsettled features. "What say you?"

Lothíriel ignored the apprehension that fluttered wildly against the walls of her stomach. Blinking heavily, she sniffed almost delicately, "A King can ask for the hand of a Princess, can he not?"

"... Aye. What of it?"

"Well, how else would we be married?" She prompted gently. Hesitantly, she added, "Your uncle is at peace, Éomer."

The colour from Éomer's face drained almost instantly as he deciphered her blanketed words. Finally, he laughed mirthlessly; a sound that chilled the very marrow of her bones. "Were I a King or a simple soldier, I would not have married," he reasoned steadily, his eyes never leaving her wavering form. "My uncle lives," he stated stubbornly, "And I ride to certain death and glory; mayhap there is hope on the horizon. But for me..?" His brow contorted thoughtlessly as his mind wandered into a distant realm that she could not reach, that she could never _hope _to reach.

Lothíriel frowned. Was this his belief during the War of the Ring? Was this his belief before he had asked for her hand from her father? She did not know how greatly the battle upon the Pelennor Fields had affected her husband.

He rarely spoke of it during their nightly conversations and apparently, the experience was to be given a great deal more consideration and credit than she ever acknowledged. Perhaps being by his uncle's side, as he wavered upon the brink of death, had given Éomer insight into a life and future that he obviously had not considered before being named King by the late Théoden.

Tentatively, Lothíriel took a step forward. She repeated the gesture until she found herself standing before the melancholic posture of her husband. "Éomer..." She breathed his name as one would breathe a sigh. But there was much more intimacy involved when she murmured his name.

It was enough for him to break out of the shadowed realm that had captured his thoughts without mercy. Instantly, he took a step back and Lothíriel felt her heart contract with pain. She would pursue this vendetta until he knew the absolute truth. She would never give up hope. "You _are _my husband and I am your wife," she reasoned calmly, placing her finger upon his lips to the silence the troubled protest that formed almost instantly at her words.

His jaw twitched furiously and she could see him restraining his temper and embarrassment at her suggestive manner, lest he do something regrettable. "Many months into our marriage, as I was with child," she saw his aghast expression and almost smiled, "You had to leave for duty and honour. Your presence was required in a small battle with a tribe of orcs that had set up camp in Eastemnet. They were terrorising neighbouring villages and towns and you were needed to aid your people. You are their King, Éomer... And I understand it was your duty."

This time, however, he would not remain silenced. Gently but forcibly, he removed her fingers. "I am not King of—!"

"Please, let me finish!" Lothíriel cried unflinchingly. Before he could respond, she rambled on, "You did your duty and succeeded but upon your return, your éored was ambushed by another tribe. We lost you! Your men came back, thinking that their King had perished. Gamling bore me the news and never have I felt such pain as I did that day. The only consolation that could be offered to myself and your people was the heir I nurtured within me. That babe carried your blood and it was all I or Rohan had left of you..."

Tears clouded her ice blue eyes, spilling out onto the high peaks of her cheek-bones. Holding back her tears for the moment, Lothíriel continued, "But you were found and you were healed! Physically, you were well. Though when you awoke, your mind looked upon the world through the eyes of an innocent child, not the man you were... And I had lost you again," she said softly, holding back a pained sob.

Throughout her tale, Éomer's expression grew darker and darker, more thunderous in nature than ever before. Were it not for his stubborn manner, he would have almost believed her. But it was not so, and Lothíriel could see this.

"_It is true_," she remained adamant. "You asked if we could visit my homeland, by the sea. Belfalas is a beautiful land and I thought it would please you greatly to make the journey. We are on our way there as I speak!" She glared defiantly at his bemused demeanour. "Outside of these fabric walls lies not your men, not your éored, but a muster of Royal guards and women-folk to bear and accompany us through the difficult journey towards Gondor. We ride to safety and sanctuary, not war. Let me aid you in gaining your memories once more, let me help you... _Please_."

As she finished, Lothíriel could distinctly feel the pounding beat of his heart against the heavy fabric of her expensive dress. She scowled when she was gently pushed away from him, his anger clearly pronounced by the clenched set of his jaw. "A fine tale you have woven, my lady," he growled softly, "But methinks that _you _are in need of aid. Not I." Éomer paced the width of the tent thoughtfully as he came to a conclusion. "I know not what your purpose is, nor how you have managed to entrench yourself so fully into my tent without my knowledge, but I must see to this immediately."

He clearly believed her to be mad. That was certainly rich, coming from him. Sighing with annoyance, Lothíriel resorted to her last solution. "Fine. I see you will remain like a stubborn child, set in your ways and unwilling to listen to reason. I understand it is difficult to believe only one person, but perhaps Gamling or Gleawman may be able to persuade you?"

The King froze, looking aghast as he gazed upon her. "How is it that you know of Gleawman? I can clearly see that you are not of this land... It is next to impossible that you should know of him! Unless you are a spy for the Dark Lord!" Swearing softly to himself, he rounded upon her and grabbed her arm, pulling her surprised self from the confines of the tent.

And all she could do was shake her head. Oh, her poor husband... How had it ever come to this?

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Lothíriel stepped out quietly beside Éomer as he stood gazing upon the scene before him, stunned by what he saw. As his hand left her arm, she sighed forlornly at his paled visage. It was not what he had expected to find. It was not the cold, dreary camp that warriors usually inhabited. Such was the peace, that Éomer himself felt oddly subdued by it all.

A small fire was burning, surrounded by tents of various sizes and purposes and yet not a soul stirred, for the moon was high in the sky; they would all be resting for the journey tomorrow. He observed the distant shadows of guards on duty with a critical eye, seeming dissatisfied that he could find none of his éored among them. The more he absorbed the details of the camp, the more bewildered he grew.

"My liege." The voice of the guard on duty by their tent, startled the King from his stupor. Kneeling swiftly before his King and Queen, the guard bowed his head, quietly amazed by the sudden presence of his lord-king.

Lothíriel held her breath as she waited for her husband's response. Which was, granted the circumstance, not much. Éomer himself seemed more than astounded by the formality of the guard. He grunted absently to himself, still staring at the spectacle of the kneeling guard by his side.

When no response was made, Lothíriel moved forward and acted on his behalf by addressing the man herself. "Rise Heoru," she commanded. "I would have you bring Gamling and Gleawman here immediately, please. Show them straight in; do not wait for my consent."

Heoru nodded quickly, his eyes lingering upon the stiffened countenance of his King. Without preamble, he left to do his Queen's bidding.

As gently as Lothíriel could, she took Éomer's puzzled form by the arm and led him slowly back into their tent. Upon entering, she guided him towards the cot and sat him down. Anyone could see that he was dumbfounded by all that was occurring around him, and Lothíriel could not fault his unsteady demeanour. Quietly, she placed her hand against his forehead and noted that it was a little warm, but nothing to be concerned about.

Éomer batted her hand away unconsciously, all the while muttering to himself, "This cannot... I will not believe it!"

Heavy footsteps came to rest behind her, alerting her to the presence of Gamling and Gleawman. She turned and gazed at them with troubled eyes. "He is a child no more," she informed them. "But his memories are still not intact. He believes that he his riding out to battle," Lothíriel smiled wryly at the raised eyebrows of the Captain and the healer. "I tried to reason with him, but he will not believe me. I think, seeing the camp outside has shaken his belief quite profoundly."

Gleawman stepped towards the cot with a frown. His brows furrowed deeply at the incoherent murmurs that fell from Éomer's mouth. "Indeed, he is in much astonishment. But perhaps I can aid him." Carefully, he took the brown satchel from his side and moved to help his King.

The next hour was spent with Gleawman assuring and calming his King, offering a herbal concoction from his satchel which seemed to do the trick. Gradually, Éomer ceased his incomprehensible muttering and was now staring vacantly at the various animal skins placed on the floor of the tent. Lothíriel could spy no emotion seeping from his eyes or face, and it worried her greatly.

She moved to Gleawman's side and spoke quietly, "Mayhap it would be best if you and Gamling spoke with him alone?"

The healer nodded, motioning the Captain towards the cot where her husband sat morosely. Lothíriel turned and exited the stifling atmosphere of the tent. She prayed with all her might that Gamling and Gleawman would help Éomer overcome his shock and grief.

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A considerable amount of time rolled on as Lothíriel wandered about the centre of the camp. The guards on watch-duty eyed her curiously, but said nothing. They bowed when she passed, but were formal as ever.

She would rather be in the tent with Éomer, aiding him and comforting him. But it was not her place to console her husband in his current condition. That could only be done by the people he was currently familiar with. It pained her deeply to know that he had lost his uncle once again; that he grieved for the death of his King and was now burdened by the duty shouldered to him.

She knew that he had been plagued by nightmares of his uncle's death, subsequently before she had lost him in the Battle of Eastemnet. She also knew that his Kingly demeanour had been a façade to his people and that inwardly, he pined for his uncle and cousin to live. He was a warrior, first and foremost. Kingship was hard for him and she had known that he missed the freedom that came with being a simple soldier in the King's service.

Lothíriel's heart ached at the knowledge. Having none of her family perish in the War, was a blessing to be sure! She did not have to grieve... And she could not begin to fathom how painful it would be to relive the death of a loved one, as though it had just occurred.

An unnoticed tear trickled down the curve of her cheek. How she wished she could help him! But as always, she was useless to him.

How much time passed, she did not know. The night was growing cooler by the minute and it was a good thing she had the incentive to wear her fur-lined cloak, lest she freeze before the hour was out. Feeling her legs grow weary of walking around, she settled upon a rock by the outside of her tent. The guard she had spoken to before, Heoru, looked at her in askance. "My lady-queen?"

Startled by his voice, Lothíriel looked at him. "Yes, Heoru?"

"Would you like a seat or stool brought to you?"

Lothíriel smiled at his concerned tone. "No thank you, I am quite satisfied by this rock."

He seemed to hesitate, so she encouraged him with a brighter smile. Gathering his wits, Heoru nodded. "I was wondering... The King; is he well?"

Looking away from the guard's piercing gaze, Lothíriel focused upon the burning embers of the fire. They flickered with delight, the smoke from the fire rising upwards as though it wished to reach Eru himself. "He is well," she replied quietly, with a good amount of relief.

Heoru lowered his head in response, returning his focus to the outer rim of the camp.

Lothíriel sat in the guard's company, feeling not an ounce of awkwardness. With his inquiries about the King's health made, Heoru remained ever vigilant in the task of guarding the Royal tent.

At length, Gamling and Gleawman appeared. They saw her resting upon the rock strode towards her with a grim countenance. Standing, Lothíriel looked at them both alternately. "How is he?"

"Better," Gleawman remarked. "He is subdued and bewildered by all that has occurred, but the mix of herbs I gave him seemed to have calmed him. Once he was thinking clearly enough, Gamling and I explained the situation quite clearly. Though he is still confounded by it all, I believe he is coping. He is a warrior, after all." The healer paused before speaking once more, "I think he will be in need of you this eve, my lady-queen. Stay with him and speak to him; you may both rest in your carriage during the ride tomorrow."

Lothíriel nodded eagerly. "I will do so. I will do anything to aid him."

"I believe he is disquieted by the news of your marriage. Éomer never saw himself as husband material," Gamling offered dryly. "Tread carefully," his eyes held a twinkle of relief and mirth at the knowledge that his King's mind was recovering. Slowly, but surely.

Lothíriel held back her laughter. "I will," she promised. Gathering up her skirts, she bid farewell to the gentlemen and turned to step into the tent.

Heoru had tried not to listen to their words; it was not polite to do so. Though he had caught snatched of words, he was still oblivious and confused by the fading chuckles of the Captain and healer as they moved away from the Royal tent.

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Lothíriel's abrupt entrance into their tent, caused Éomer to glance up sharply. His eyes followed her inquiringly as she strode forward to sit upon the stool by his cot. "How do you fare?" She asked breathlessly, resisting the urge to take his hand.

Under his thorough scrutiny, Lothíriel tried not to fidget. He was staring at her with a fair amount of wonderment and fascination, as though he had stumbled upon a rare creature that had been unknown to him before this day.

She offered a watery smile when he did not answer. "Is there anything you wish to know?" She asked suddenly, an epiphany dawning upon her as she found the means to continue the conversation. "Gleawman said it would be wise for us to converse; if you have any questions, that is." She was rambling. She knew this, but she was too excited by the prospect of conversing once more with her husband. Lothíriel had not realised how much she had missed speaking with him.

"Questions?" He echoed absently, blinking under the heavy weight of her cold blue eyes. It was almost as if he was mesmerised by her presence. She did not know what to make of it.

"Yes, questions." Lothíriel blew away the strand of hair from her eyes that had fallen from her bun. "Anything you would like to ask, so that I may fill in the blanks," she joked lightly, causing him to quirk an eyebrow. Oh, how awkward this all was! She cleared her throat and shifted uncomfortably.

For a moment, Éomer was silent as he remained in observation of her. Then, he spoke, almost suddenly, "I have no questions," the muttered comment left Lothíriel crestfallen. He saw this and hastily added, "Well, I suppose there are a few." Absently, he rubbed his beard in a thoughtful gesture that raised her spirits. Perhaps all was not lost!

"You say your name is Lothíriel?" Éomer began doubtfully. Once she nodded in affirmation, he grew bolder, "And we are married; Gleawman and Gamling seem to confirm your story, yet I find it difficult to believe," he admitted reluctantly.

Lothíriel chuckled. "I could scarce believe myself when we first wed."

"Was it love that drove me to propose?" He asked suddenly, throwing her off balance completely.

Lothíriel did not know if she had the strength to answer truthfully. Nibbling her lip, she carefully tried to find the correct words. "Our marriage was a... Political alliance," she said slowly, noticing his bewilderment. Carrying on just as carefully, she added, "But I believe that you were fond of me."

"Ah. Of course. A King has duties towards his people and cannot afford the luxury of marrying for love." Did she detect a hint of disappointment?

"I would not say it was _entirely_ a political agreement. We had spoken on several occasions and perhaps that was what prompted you to ask my father for his blessing. I know not your reasoning behind asking for my hand in marriage but... You did tell me that you loved me."

Éomer seemed even more agape by this suggestion. Lothíriel hid her smile beneath her small hand. For a long while, an extended silence reigned supremely before he gathered his wits enough to question her again. "Before..." his voice tapered off before he roused himself again. "Before, you said that you were with child." He was being as quiet as a mouse and Lothíriel had to strain to listen to him. "Where is the babe? May I be allowed to see if I have a son or daughter?"

At his words, Lothíriel felt her heart plummet into the depths of her stomach. Her shame and grief was evident to Éomer, though he did not know why she was behaving in such a melancholic manner. Looking down at her hands, she responded, "I lost the child at birth." She forced out the whispered reply as one would force out poisoned bile.

What surprised her, was Éomer's response. He had boldly taken her hand and was gazing at their clasped fingers with deeply concealed grief. "Forgive me if I may have frightened you before. I did not know what the truth was and... Forgive me if I seemed hasty with my actions and accusations. This day has been filled with the most grievous of news. First my uncle, and now this unhappy revelation," he snorted with disbelief. "Will the pain ever end?"

"It will, in due time." Lothíriel squeezed his hand helplessly. "This year of my life has been filled with much sorrow. But I am glad that you have returned to me, my lord." Surely this gentle man could not have been the same person that had awoken in this very tent before? It seemed that her husband had many colours of his personality he had not shown her during their brief marriage.

He was a warrior but he was also a noble man, an honourable man that was kind and disarming in such a way, that it left her flustered. Éomer was troubled by the loss of his memories, that much was evident, so she did not take his previous behaviour to heart.

In all honesty, she did not know what comfort she could offer him, save for speaking about the painful time of their marriage. How truthful could she be? How could she inform him that she had not loved him at all during the first months of their marriage? It would not bode well for either, but she understood that the truth would always remain the correct path to choose.

So, she was not affronted nor apprehensive by his next wish.

"Gleawman told me to ask if you would tell me about yourself," he requested gruffly, but solemnly. "If you will, he said that I may find a way to make your trials and triumphs my own. Will you tell me of your life?"

And she did.

She told him everything.

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**Added Notes:** fans herself Whew! Hunky, scrump-diddly-umptious Éomer is present in this instalment. I'm a bit under the weather because, I caught the flu so I'm still feeling a bit poorly. Is it just me or has the Brit weather gone completely doolally? I had hoped to get this chapter up sooner, but was prevented from doing so because of the flu and the fact that I have a balrog for a boss. Yes folks, an actual balrog. She's got horns the size of a mûmak's behind and is more deadlier than a constipated warg. Apologies for the suspenseful wait—and yes, balrogs _do_ have the smelliest breath in all of Arda! (insert cheeky grin) Not that I'm insinuating my boss has bad breath...

I hope you have enjoyed this chapter and that it wasn't too boring; next chapter will have our favourite pair in Dol Amroth, and Éomer is not acting himself. Perhaps an update will be available as soon as the boss-monster munches enough chocolate to make her slip into an anticipated sugar-coma by me and the rest of the staff.

Thanks to EruntaleofRohan, plzthx101, LadyArian, Blue Eyes At Night, lady scribe of avandell, Luthien587, buttercup7, rider of the riddermark, Enigmatic Irish, wondereye, thayzel and Rebby-Eowyn for reviewing! Your opinions are valued and greatly appreciated.


	18. Time

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**By the Sea.**

Chapter Eighteen: Time.

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As Lothíriel finished the long and sorrowful tale, Éomer simply remained silent beside her. He made no move to respond outwardly to her voiced memories of their marriage, her pregnancy and the subsequent loss of their child; nor the battle that had ultimately separated them. It was as if a barrier shielded him from her truthful words and nothing could penetrate it.

Then, without preamble, he rose from the cot and began to pace the confines of the tent like a trapped wild cat, glancing occasionally in her direction at uneven intervals.

When he did lock eyes with her, Lothíriel felt as though she was trapped within the eye of a great storm and at any moment the peace surrounding them would be uprooted by the ferocity simmering beneath the taut muscles of his sturdy frame.

Éomer's clenched jaw was enough for her shift uneasily upon the cot.

Hesitantly, she spoke, "Éomer?"

Clearing his throat, Éomer looked at his side with a vacant expression.

With every silent minute that passed, Lothíriel grew more and more anxious by the thoughts that festered within her husband's mind. What was he thinking? Why would he not speak to her? It was almost as if he did not want to believe the tragic tale of their marriage, for though it had been bittersweet during the short year of their union, the trials they endured had only made her love for him grow.

She wondered if he did not wish to be bound to her... Lothíriel would not have been surprised and she could understand if that were case. His mind was still poised in the time before the War and the two great battles. Perhaps, in this moment, he was not ready for love.

Rising from her seat on the cot, Lothíriel stepped towards her husband slowly. "Are you well?"

A fire blazed in his creamy brown eyes, but she knew not what kindled the flame. "I am fine." The throaty intonation of his voice sent chills down her spine.

Swallowing the lump in her own throat, she continued, "Would you care for something to eat? Or perhaps something to drink; ale?" Valar! The tension between them was growing more awkward by the second. Soon, she would run out things to say.

"No," he muttered darkly, clasping at the empty space by his hip.

Lothíriel saw this and frowned. He noticed her staring at him and turned away from her gaze. Was that a blush she saw staining his fair cheeks before he spun away? She tilted her head in confusion. "Are you looking for something?"

When Éomer made no move to reply Lothíriel crossed her arms absently, patiently waiting.

Finally, he looked back at her with such a blank expression that it could have mirrored the Void. "My sword; I don't have it."

Realisation dawned within Lothíriel's bright blue eyes. "Oh." She scrunched her nose up in thought before speaking, "Well, your sword is in Edoras. Because of your—condition, we thought it best if you weren't given anything to harm yourself with," Lothíriel smiled guiltily. "We did not think your state of mind would improve so dramatically, so I left it in the care of the advisers."

Éomer sighed angrily, brushing his hand through his hair. "And Firefoot?"

The Queen of Rohan winced at the mention of her husband's war-horse. "He... He has been poorly since the Battle of Eastemnet. The grooms and stable-hands are caring for him the best they can but it is clear to all that he misses you; it was far too dangerous to let you near him prior to this evening. And because of his health, we could not bring him on the journey."

Upon her words, the murderous expression on Éomer's face spoke a thousand words. "I am sorry," she added lamely, trying not to bolt from the tent at his furious and incensed demeanour.

Éomer detected her fear almost immediately, and the animosity in his eyes softened considerably. He took a deep breath, "So, I am to be left horse-less and unarmed. Wonderful. Simply wonderful!" His sarcastic outburst cut deep but Lothíriel did not allow herself to become phased by it.

Suddenly, an idea came to her unbidden by restraint.

Crossing the tent and moving towards her travelling trunk, she knelt before it and proceeded to empty out the packed contents. As she did this, Éomer's curiosity became so increased, that it pushed him towards her side where he stood and continued to watch silently as Lothíriel pulled out the various dresses and petticoats that had been folded and wrapped carefully in paper material, before being placed gently into the trunk. She continued this task until she was rifling through the remaining dresses at the bottom of the trunk.

By the time she found what she was looking for, her husband had grown impatient and moved to sit on the cot at the far side of the tent, all the while cursing to himself in Rohirric. Lothíriel raised an eyebrow at some of the words and phrases. It was obvious that he had not expected her to understand his quiet ranting.

Carefully, she walked towards him and placed the object in her hands upon his lap and waited for the imminent reaction.

Éomer froze as he stared at the object.

It was a sword.

He reached out to finger the intricate carvings of the scabbard. "Where did you get this?" He asked in astonishment.

Lothíriel smiled softly as she sat down once again beside her husband. "It belonged to my father in his younger years; a blessed Elvish blade. He gave it to me as a wedding gift, so that I would forever remember him..." She paused and placed her hand upon his shoulder. Éomer looked at her intently. "I wish for you to have it," she murmured quietly, earning a sharp intake of breath from her husband.

Almost reverently, Éomer lifted the sword from his lap, all the while shaking his head, to examine the patterns upon the scabbard. He rose from the cot and pulled the blade from the beautiful sheath; a delightful ring echoed out into the silence of the tent. The blade glinted dangerously in the dim light of the candles, almost burning brightly and majestically with an inner light of it's own.

In the same breath, Éomer pushed the blade back into the scabbard and handed it back to Lothíriel. "I cannot accept this. I will not."

"But why?" She persisted, "I am gifting it to you!"

"You cannot. It belongs to your father," he argued wilfully.

Lothíriel shook her head at her husband's stubbornness. "Éomer, the sword is mine to give to whom I wish! And I wish for you to have it!" Standing, she took his hand placed the weapon within his grasp. "I know that in your mind, you do not see us bonded in marriage. But to me; we are wed. I shall wait for you to see this and I will not be offended if you think otherwise, but this sword is yours now. Besides, it is far better that you keep it; it has been gathering quite a bit of dust since my father gave it to me," she joked. "And even though I clean it regularly, you must release me from that burden!" Lothíriel offered a small, encouraging smile.

Reluctantly, Éomer held the sword within his eyesight. He allowed Lothíriel to take his free hand and together they stood awkwardly, admiring her father's sword in that one tender moment where he allowed her to show affection towards him. At length, he looked at her from the corner of his eye and sighed in defeat. "Very well. It will be as you wish."

Lothíriel's smile grew and it was all she could do to stop herself from throwing her arms about his neck.

They spent the remainder of the evening in a relatively forced comfortable silence, for Éomer had no other words he wished to say to her and she could think of nothing else to say to him. The time passed and soon it was required for them to sleep, lest they become too exhausted for the journey the following morning. Éomer requested that another cot be brought in and Lothíriel felt slightly disappointed by this, but she remained silent as they both settled down for the night.

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Dol Amroth was now only a half a day's ride away. They would reach the castle by nightfall.

With every passing meter and every tremulous gallop of the horses bearing them, Lothíriel felt her anticipation bubble and sputter within her like a babbling brook. Peeking out from behind the curtain of the carriage, she almost grinned joyfully at the familiar sight of her homeland. It felt so wonderful to return! She longed to stroll along the sandy shores of sea, in search of exotic shells that were brought in by the ever changing tide.

After all, there was only so much she could do in Edoras for enjoyment; but in Dol Amroth it was different. It _would_ be different. In Rohan she had more pressing duties to attend to with her husband's significant absence, and they took up most of her time. Lothíriel found that even though her duties were taxing and wearying, she somewhat enjoyed them. So she could not complain. The experience of dealing with disgruntled lords and advisers regarding Rohan had only made her more empathetic towards Éomer. During the months of her pregnancy, she realised that she never truly understood how difficult it must have been for him. Or how lonely.

At the thought of her husband, Lothíriel forced back a displeased grimace. The carriage she was riding in felt incredibly stifling without another person present to distract her. Currently, Éomer was riding outside on a borrowed horse, much to her displeasure and concern.

After she had told him about the occurrences during the blank periods in his memory, Éomer grew even more withdrawn from her. And although her gifted sword remained by his side constantly, he barely spoke three words to her during the day! When he did speak, his words were more polite questions eluding towards her health rather than anything else. His behaviour worried her deeply. They slept in the same tent, albeit in separate cots, but there was no interaction between one another. Not since the quiet, tender moment when she had given him her father's sword. It was almost as if he was avoiding her.

It saddened Lothíriel when she had to come to terms with the brutal fact that this Éomer was nothing like the attentive man she grew to love during their short marriage; he was more rough around the edges. In a strange way, she supposed that it did enthral her—to know that the warrior in him was present at the forefront, before the King. He had taken the news of his uncle's death with a stoic affront, shedding not a single tear. She knew not how deep his pain went, but on more than one occasion she wished to confront him about it. The grief he felt must be tenfold, considering the factor that he did not remember exactly how Théoden perished. And Lothíriel had no plans to enlighten him either; it was too heartbreaking.

But she did not think it was his grief that kept him from her.

It was something to do with _her_. Lothíriel thought that by being honest and speaking with him during that first night in the tent, he would receive her better than if she lied about the state of their marriage. But it was not so. It was apparent that he did not take kindly to being informed that their married life was far from being perfect. And even though she endeavoured to tell him everything about their time together, the good _and _the bad, he fell completely silent at the knowledge that deep down she had never wished to share herself physically or emotionally with him, until it was too late.

Lothíriel had an inkling that perhaps she had gone too far with the information about their marriage.

It was true that her stupidity knew no bounds when it came to her husband. And she berated herself constantly for that. It was no wonder that only one event now remained hidden from him; her mistakes concerning Elfhelm. One day, perhaps, one day she would be able to confess the truth of her treachery. It had been a stupid, pathetic mistake on her part and one that she would never forgive herself for.

Not until she told Éomer and he was willing to forgive her for her brash actions, would she be able to lay her sordid moment with Elfhelm to rest. And even then, she would still never find the will to forgive herself. But how could she tell him and grow closer to him when he barely spoke to her now?

He deserved to know the absolute truth; such a wonderful man could not remain in blind deception. She would face her punishment as she deserved, no matter what the consequence... But until that time came, Lothíriel needed to comfort _him_.

In his hour of need, she would not abandon him to his own wayward, precarious thoughts. She refused to let him succumb to sorrow. He needed to see how much she had grown to love him; that he was not alone and that he was loved—loved and cherished! And ere the very foundations of Middle-earth were torn asunder, she would find a way to be there for him.

When they reached Dol Amroth and the chance was upon them, the Queen of Rohan vowed that she would make amends with her husband.

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When Lothíriel next opened her eyes, the carriage had come to halt. Instinctively, and from the bustling noises outside, she knew that they had arrived inside the castle gates. Her stomach churned at the prospect of seeing her family and her people. Although she had seen her father and Elphir mere months prior to this visit, it had been under severe circumstances. Now, with her husband recovering, she grew joyous at the thought of a reunion with her family.

The door to her carriage opened and deftly, she took the calloused hand offered to her. To her surprise as she leant out of the carriage, she found that it was Éomer's hand she was holding. He helped her down onto the cobblestone ground with a wary countenance whilst he examined his surroundings. She smiled at him in hopes of comforting his wary thoughts, but he seemed not to notice her. He was far too preoccupied with accumulating the specific details of the castle's stone courtyard.

Lothíriel sighed wearily and looked around.

Everything was as it was before she left, but there were no welcomers this evening, no overbearing well-wishers and she was truly thankful for that. Her father must have interpreted her letter correctly; she wished few people to know about the King and Queen of Rohan's arrival in Dol Amroth until the following morning.

In her wearied state, she was not in the mood to trifle with false politeness, propriety and the fussy nature of ladies in-waiting that came with greeting lords and ladies of the court. So until the next day, she and her husband would have the peace of mind to enjoy her father and brothers' company without being in the presence of others.

Silently, as Éomer took in his surroundings, Lothíriel allowed her eyes to fall upon the carved steps that led up to the entrance of her father's Hall.

There they stood—her father and brothers, regal and resplendent even in their every-day clothing. Her father seemed grave in his old years but her brothers stood in a relaxed fashion behind him. Amrothos was twitching and fidgeting, as was his usual manner, and Elphir smiled broadly in her direction. Erchirion, on the other hand, looked fierce and ready to charge into battle but she could see the twinkle of joy beneath his gaze. She resisted the urge to grin at them and run up the stairs as she had done many times before in her childhood.

Instead, she guided Éomer towards the steps and they ascended them together. As they climbed, Lothíriel could scope his apprehension and doubt. He had no cause to worry. He looked like a King to her; he _was_ a King. But Éomer did not seem to register that in his mind. In his eyes, he still saw himself as a soldier and warrior. But hopefully that would change with time as he grew accustomed to all that was around him.

Offering a squeeze to his elbow in show of support, Éomer registered her action by drawing her closer to his side. It was the first outward sign of acknowledgement to her presence since they had spoken. And though it was not much, Lothíriel's countenance brightened considerably at the implication.

Smiling outwardly now, Lothíriel stood before her father and curtseyed low in obeisance. She felt Éomer bow equally, and noted the bafflement in her father's eyes as he gazed at the Rohan King. "Dol Amroth bids you welcome, King and Queen of the Mark," Prince Imrahil's voice rang out clearly. He was eyeing Éomer with something akin to bewilderment.

It would have been improper for Lothíriel to speak before her husband but when he said nothing, she turned worriedly in his direction. He did not realise that he would have to graciously accept her father's welcome. With a gentle nudge, she prodded him to speak.

Éomer cleared his throat in embarrassment and nodded. "Thank you, my lord. It is an honour to be welcomed once more in my wife's homeland."

Lothíriel beamed at her husband's reply and Prince Imrahil was clearly relieved by the response. He smiled and led them into the main entrance of the castle towards his private study. Even though it was the evening, certain mannerisms still had to be upheld in the eyes of others. She could tell that their greeting was being watched by many a servant, and Lothíriel did not want news of her husband's memory loss to spread throughout the city, lest it cause discomfort to him.

One thing she knew for certain about Éomer was that he disliked being perceived as weak. It was one of the reasons why he refused adamantly to ride in the carriage with her. Even though he was injured. The stubbornness of the male persona never ceased to amaze her.

They were approaching the private rooms and as soon as she entered Prince Imrahil's study, Lothíriel was descended upon like a meal waiting to be gorged by ravenous prey. Her brothers each hugged her tightly and she found herself running out of air on more than one occasion! When the time came to embrace her father, she clung to him with utter relief and delight.

It felt so good to be back in Dol Amroth.

Imrahil smiled and patted the top of her head lovingly, as he would when she was but a young girl, before Amrothos seized her again and spun her around with delight. They laughed and made such a raucous commotion about her that Lothíriel could do nothing but chuckle at their euphoria and jubilation.

"It is good to have you back, sister!" Amrothos exclaimed eagerly, resisting the urge to ruffle her hair.

Lothíriel laughed. "It is good to be back!"

"Are you well?" Erchirion, second oldest of Imrahil's sons, questioned gravely.

"Aye, very well." The elation within her breast soon dwindled when she noticed her husband standing in the doorway of the study gazing at them, quite mystified by all the jollity presented to him.

Lothíriel pulled away from her youngest brother, much to his disappointment, and went to the doorway. Éomer's darkened eyes appraised her secretly as she stood a moment before him. Then, with a bright smile, she took him by the arm and led him into the study. He too was descended upon by her family and during the excited reunion, Lothíriel swore she caught a glimpse of a ghostly smile forming on her husband's face.

"A happy hour it is to have my sworn son returned to us!" Imrahil all but cried. Her brothers cheered in agreement. Lothíriel giggled as Éomer's brow quirked with utter confusion as he was hugged by his supposed wife's father, and then by her brothers. He returned each hug, but could not muster the same enthusiasm as her family. It went unnoticed by all save for Lothíriel. He seemed quite worried by everything. She realised he did not know how to behave towards her family.

Before she could say anything, Imrahil announced that a meal had been prepared in the family's dining chambers and soon, both husband and wife were led by the Prince and his sons towards the hearty feast that awaited them.

As Éomer's tensed body walked beside her down the long and narrow hallway, Lothíriel could not resist reaching out to squeeze his shoulder. She smiled supportively when he started and gazed at her questioningly. "Relax," she whispered lowly, so that only he could decipher her words.

Apprehensively, he returned her smile with one of his own. It lit up his face like the sun's rays upon a field of emerald green grass.

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Later that evening, Lothíriel found Éomer standing on the large stone balcony of their room overlooking the sea.

Standing beside him, she peered out at the ebony blanket of the night, framed by the sounds of the rushing sea waves lapping against dark sandy shores and limestone cliffs. The wind blew almost uncomfortably, but she cared not and neither did her husband; he'd been standing on the balcony for the better part of an hour, simply beholding the wondrous majesty of the open sea that was brightened by a sliver of moonlight from the cloudless sky.

Either he was admiring the view, or he was avoiding her again.

She guessed at the latter, but did not wish to dwell on such things.

Dinner with her father and brothers had been only a slightly tedious affair. Questions were raised and answers were given during the relaxed meal but Éomer did not once look at her for confirmation about certain events. He let her speak, and enjoyed the evening with her father, fascinated by stories from the War. They seemed to get along swimmingly and she was not surprised. Her father and husband had been very good friends prior to their marriage.

And so, the evening had flown past and soon the time to rest drew ever closer.

She and Éomer retired to their chambers together, but Éomer had other distracting devices planned; standing on the balcony of their rooms all night. Perhaps he did not wish to be in her presence because they were alone together, in their own guest chambers, for the very first time since he regained only a few shards of his memory.

Lothíriel did not know what he was thinking as he stared at the rippling waves of the ocean. She could not read his mind but he seemed lost, as if he was grasping at a slippery eel and it was refusing to remain within his fingers.

As she stood next to her husband, the roaring waves of the ocean simmered down to allow only the sound of gently churning water to remain between them. At length she spoke in a hushed voice, "Do you hear it?"

He blinked slowly before shifting his weight. "Hear what?" The reluctance to speak was evident.

"Murmurs in the ocean..." Lothíriel placed her hands upon the wide barrier of the balcony. She leaned forward, as if she was being drawn towards the rhythmic swaying of the waves. "The call whispers from the horizon; and it is enchanting and beguiling."

"I hear nothing," Éomer rumbled indelicately.

She smiled at this. "There is a legend that says the women of my father's line can hear the call of the sea. Just like the Elves. They feel it in every breath they draw and it is ingrained into every beat of their hearts." Lothíriel examined the sea closely as the wind caressed her cheeks. "It must be due to the blood of our Elvish ancestors," she surmised thoughtfully.

"Can you hear the call?"

"Sometimes."

Éomer grunted, "What does it feel like?" He questioned stonily, still avoiding her gaze as his eyes remained fixed upon the shimmering ripples of the sea.

Half filled with mirthless laughter and desolation, Lothíriel replied, "It feels like the tug of a cord within my heart; and the call pulls it ever closer towards the sea."

Finally, he turned his head and looked down at her profile. "What will happen if you answer it?"

Lothíriel was surprised to find tears brimming in her eyes. The cause of them remained a mystery, but Éomer was oblivious to their presence. "I know not," she grimaced in despondency. "I have never had the cause to answer the call... Only in great despair will it be too much to bear. But for now, it remains not in the forefront of my mind."

Taking a deep breath, she pulled back away from the wide barrier of the balcony. "When the Elves answer it, it is different for them. They may travel to the Grey Havens when they see fit and sail into the West; and then their hearts shall rejoice and be glad. But for Men, it is not the same."

"How so?" Her husband asked, perplexed.

The Queen of Rohan smiled bitterly. "We mortals do not have the luxury of time. We do not have the time to love or age in our wisdom," she said quietly, referring to herself. "Nor do we have an eternal haven to which we can escape to. The Elves are lucky in that respect."

Éomer snorted derisively, brushing a few tendrils of flaxen hair from his eyes. "Immortality can be a burden. I would rather live for a few glorious years—filled with peace and merriment, than spend all of eternity watching the world change before my eyes. I would rather make mistakes and learn from them than grow into wisdom my wisdom through endless years. And as for love..." Suddenly, but gently, he moved closer to her and clasped her chin between his fingers.

As he turned her to face him, his eyes bore into her own with such precision that it left her breathless. "Love can be a fickle mistress for mortals. But it needs only a few seeds to be sown by tender hands before it can grow into something illustrious. It needs time," he paused before saying, "I need time."

The things he said felt odd to her. Lothíriel felt her face flush into a becoming shade of red. Then, she found the courage to ask the troubling thoughts that festered within her mind. "Éomer... Why have you been avoiding me?"

Éomer shrugged gracefully, shaking his head. "I find it difficult to converse with you," he answered honestly. "In my mind, we are not married. And I do not yet love you." Seeing her eyes flash with pain, he hastily added, "Do not be offended or hurt. It is difficult for me show my emotions. I have not gained the ability, you see."

A wry smile graced his lips. "I am a hardened warrior, first and foremost, Lothíriel." He released her from the grasp of his fingers before stepping back, leaving her feeling bereft of all hope. "As of this moment, I have not been able to accept the death of my uncle nor the Kingship he has laid so willingly at my feet. Until I can do so, I cannot be inclined to think about you—about love—in such an offhanded manner," he continued softly, "You have suffered much due to our union... But for now, thinking about such things is not an option for me."

The coarseness of his hard voice felt like a thousand cold whips against her smooth skin. "Not an option?" She echoed fearfully.

Her husband sighed heavily before turning to enter their chambers. "I need time," he muttered roughly, unable to look back at her solitary form upon the balcony. "I am sorry, Lothíriel; truly."

Because of his words, she did not speak out to him. Instead, Lothíriel watched him disappear into the shrouded darkness of their chambers as he left her upon the cold balcony, where the call of the sea began to tug mercilessly against the strings of her heart.

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**Added Notes:** ... Hm. This chapter made some sense in my mind. Did it make any sense to you?

Thanks to EruntaleofRohan, plzkthx101 (Wow, thank you!), LadyArian, buttercup7, Blue Eyes At Night, lady scribe of avandell, wondereye, Enigmatic Irish, Dark-Sylph, Angsty Elf Twins, Hayley and x for reviewing! I really appreciate the time you take out to review each chapter!


	19. Secrets Exposed

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**By the Sea.**

Chapter Nineteen: Secrets Exposed.

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Five days had passed since that fateful evening upon the balcony.

Admittedly, Lothíriel saw very little of her husband in those five days and even though she felt hurt by his distance, she realised that she deserved the aloof treatment she received from Éomer. Had she not done the same to him during the first few months of their marriage? Had she not behaved appallingly to such a wonderful man?

There was absolutely no reason why she should mope about the castle, pining for something she had done nothing to gain nor deserve. Instead, she would wait for Éomer to come to her when he was ready. He needed time, and she would give him that without wallowing in her own self-pity, for she had done that far too long and it needed to be stopped.

It was time to cast aside her past and look forward.

So, Lothíriel enjoyed what free time she had with her brothers; conversing with Elphir's wife and playing with their son, Nemír, her young nephew. It was difficult to watch Nemír laugh and be so... So full of life. It only served to remind her about how much she was missing in the joyous occasion of motherhood.

The longing in her heart grew with every passing moment she spent in the young child's company. But Lothíriel found that she could not tear herself away from her brother's beautiful son. Even though she grieved at the sight of him, there was also a certain contentment in his presence that she could find nowhere else. And eventually, she felt that her heart was beginning to heal from the bruising wounds that had been inflicted during the loss of her own child.

As well as occupying her time with Nemír, Lothíriel also strolled along the sandy shores of her home just before sunrise, as she had done so many times in her childhood. She even visited the market-place, taking leisurely walks down the hewn stone streets of her father's city.

The people were friendly—accommodating and kind, just as she remembered them. Elphir's wife, Dúrvain, even joined her on a few occasions to sample the local delicacies in the market, sometimes bringing along little Nemír so that he too could enjoy the city sights.

The two women bided their time by sifting through small shops and stalls, unaware and uncaring that some of the locals stopped to stare at the Royal pair. They bowed and curtseyed politely at anyone who wished to greet them and give small gifts to them. Lothíriel felt warmed by their courtesy and charm. Very rarely had she been allowed out of the castle grounds as a child, and she enjoyed interacting with the many people of the city, even though her father still insisted that a guard be assigned to protect her. It was royal protocol and something she did not argue with. But sometimes, just sometimes, she wished she could run free from the hampering situation.

However, Lothíriel was simply glad that she could have the opportunity to go through her old dwellings before returning to Edoras. Her true home. Dol Amroth would always hold a special place in her heart, but she had come realise that her home was not by the sea, as she previously thought it to be.

Her home was where her heart lay; with Éomer.

Coming to such a bold conclusion in the five days of rest and relaxation, without her husband, had been a thunderous shock to her state of mind.

Dol Amroth would always be cherished within her mind, but now she felt the urge to return to Edoras and see her husband's people. _Her_ people. Indeed, it was true that she wished this and she could not hide from it any longer.

To deny such thoughts would have been an injustice; Lothíriel loved her husband deeply.

Éomer, in the meantime, had holed himself up with her father so that he could try to gain more insight into the ruling of a country.

She could not fault him for this.

It was difficult enough to know that your memory had gone, without coming to terms with the death of an uncle and the attainment of a throne in the process; as well as learning that you are wed to woman you had no idea existed. But her father would help him through this difficult time, even if she could not, by keeping him occupied and giving him advice about the conduct and manner of a ruler as well as the trading and treaties between two countries allied together.

Lothíriel was eternally grateful to her father for the role he played to Éomer and did not know how she could ever repay him. She was lucky to have such a wonderful family. And if anyone in her family noticed the distance between herself and Éomer, it was not mentioned.

Thus, Lothíriel was allowed rest from her duties in Rohan to find peace and comfort in the place of her birth. Though she missed Éomer's companionship, she took it in her stride when they were together during formal occasions. And she savoured every moment in his presence.

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It was on the tenth day of their stay in Dol Amroth that Lothíriel's world came tumbling down around her.

She awoke that morning to find Éomer already dressed and standing with uncertainty beside their bed, watching intently as she roused herself from the peaceful slumber that had captured her so completely. Closing her eyes again for a mere second, Lothíriel sighed in contentment as she felt a soft delicate brush upon her brow, like the first kiss of spring.

Her sky tinted eyes snapped open and focused upon her husband questioningly.

Had he just touched her..?

But she could see that he had not moved from his prior position.

In the days of their stay at Dol Amroth, Éomer had not shared their bed with her, often choosing to sleep on the chilly hard floor or the large high-backed chair by the balcony doors. As a warrior and commander, she knew that he was well versed in sleeping under difficult conditions, but it was getting beyond ridiculous.

So Lothíriel had tried, unsuccessfully, to get him to sleep on the bed. She offered to sleep on the floor in his stead or shift to a different chamber from him, but he would always refuse and leave no further room for argument. Sometimes, she honestly could not understand his motivations. He did not wish to sleep in the same bed, but he also did not wish for her to move into separate chambers.

The male-mind boggled her to new found heights.

Perhaps, she decided, it would not have been wise to shift into different rooms. Tongues would be wagging and gossiping about the dissent between them and it would not bode well for Rohan's image if the King and Queen could not stomach one anothers' presence. Thus, she spoke no more about her husband's odd sleeping habits.

Blinking away the sleep that still clouded her mind, she frowned and yawned; a feat that was achieved with years of practise. "Éomer?"

He remained silent for a moment, shifting his weight uneasily. "Your father has summoned us to his council chambers," he announced quietly. "Your handmaidens await you in the antechamber; I will remain here to escort you."

Frowning, Lothíriel nodded and rose from the bed, wondering what was going on. Quickly, she retreated into the antechamber without glancing back at her husband. It was odd that they had been summoned when twilight had not faded into dawn. Lothíriel allowed the handmaidens to quickly wash her down and dress her as she remained immersed in her own thoughts. When they finished, she still had not come to any sort of conclusion.

Emerging from the antechamber, Lothíriel caught her husband's eye as he stood by the doorway, and tilted her head thoughtfully. "Do you know why he has called for us?" She asked softly.

Éomer hesitated to speak, and she could see that he knew exactly why Imrahil had summoned them. "It is best that you speak with your father," he said with finality.

Sighing, Lothíriel acquiesced and took her husband's outstretched arm so that he could lead her to her father.

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When they entered her father's council rooms, Lothíriel was surprised to find Erchirion standing sombrely by the open windows. A light breeze caused the heavy velvet drapes to dance lightly in rhythm by his legs; the pleasant sound of rustling tickled the folds of her ears. Erchirion's eyes were distant and fierce as he gazed at her, but a grim smile was plastered across his face... He looked so unlike the brother she loved. Where had his joy gone? Where was the charming man with the beguiling smile that had left her at Edoras? She had noticed over the duration of her stay that he seemed changed.

Lothíriel spied her father sitting at his desk with a grave expression and suddenly, she was struck by how serious the situation seemed. Whatever it was, something untoward was about to occur and she was not looking forward to it. After a lengthy pause, Lothíriel released Éomer's arm so that she could step towards her father. His eyes fell upon her before he rose from his comfortable seat.

Sighing wearily, Imrahil held out his hand to his only daughter.

"Ada?" Lothíriel's voice was quiet as she placed her hand in her father's large palm. From the corner of her eye, she saw Éomer move to stand beside her brother at the open shutters of the window. Both her husband and brother solemnly regarded Imrahil and Lothíriel.

The Prince of Dol Amroth sighed heavily, as though a great burden sat upon his shoulders. "My daughter..." He cupped her cheek with his free hand as he gazed deeply into her eyes, lightly squeezing her fingers.

Lothíriel felt her heart seize at the severity of his conduct. "What is the matter?" She breathed, unsure of how she should handle the situation.

Gently, Imrahil leaned down to kiss her brow. "There is a request I must make of you."

"A request?" She drew back and nodded. "What is it that you wish for, Ada?"

"Your compassion."

The response confused Lothíriel beyond belief.

Before she could voice such thoughts, her father led her towards the far side of the large room. As he took her towards the corner, Lothíriel eyed the small wooden crib that finally came into view. What surprised her even more was the small mewling sound that came from it. She stepped closer to the cradle, her eyes widening with wonder at the sight of the small babe that lay inside, swaddled in luxurious cloth. Wisps of ebony black hair curled onto the small child's forehead, it's eyes closed and face scrunched against the pale light emanating from the candles in the room.

Lothíriel could not stop the gasp that fell from her pale pink lips. With a frown, she looked at her father as he released her hand. "What is this child doing here, father?" To her right, she felt Erchirion suddenly step into the empty space beside her.

"He is mine," her brother whispered, almost to himself as he looked down at the child with a pained, longing expression.

Appalled by the suggestion, Lothíriel whirled around to face him. "What? How can that be?" Erchirion was not wed, it was not possible that the babe should be his.

Without flinching at Lothíriel's harsh voice, Erchirion raised his cold grey eyes to her. "Ten months ago, I made a grave mistake and this," he gestured at the child, "Was the result."

She could not believe her ears. Blinking rapidly, Lothíriel looked at the child and then at her brother, repeating this gesture several times. "A mistake?" The tremor in her speech did not go undetected by her brother.

Erchirion scowled. "I dallied with someone I should not have; this is the price I have paid for my indiscretion."

Lothíriel released her breath in a rush of disbelief. "And have you wed with the mother of this child?" She asked shrilly, knowing that it must have caused their father a great amount of trouble to deal with Erchirion's situation. How had Imrahil explained all of this to his people? And why had it been kept from her for so long?

The dark-haired Prince shook his head morosely. "I did not know she was with child," he murmured, "The babe was delivered to our door a few weeks prior, secreted to us in the night, with only a note and a gold chain belonging to his mother, attached to him." Lethargically, he reached into the breast pocket of his tunic and produced a crumpled piece of poorly produced parchment.

Lothíriel took the letter and set about reading the contents with a stony air of indifference.

By the end of the letter, she opened her mouth to speak, but could not find the words necessary to deal with her brother. "The child's mother is dead then," she choked out after a period of oppressing silence. "And how can you be sure that he is your son?"

Erchirion snorted desolately. "He is _mine_," he reiterated firmly. "Of that, I am certain; the name of the woman in question was my..."

"Your what?" Lothíriel prodded gently but with determination.

Her brother blinked, as though he was washing away something from his past he did not wish to regurgitate. "A passing fancy," he muttered so that only she could hear. "I was only with her one time."

"Only one time?" She said, louder than she wished. Lowering her voice again, Lothíriel tugged roughly at her brother's sleeve. "Only one time is needed Erchirion," she hissed furiously. "How could you allow this to happen?" The roughly put question lingered between them. When he made no move to reply, Lothíriel spoke again. "You have cost father his integrity with your selfishness. Did you not stop to think what the consequence would be? Did you not, for one second, believe that this child could be the result of your dalliance?" Again, she yanked his sleeve so that he would look at her. "You were not married to her! What were you thinking?"

For the first time in his life, Erchirion had no words to argue with her justly posed questions or accusations. And for the first time in her life, Lothíriel was ashamed to see her brother lower his head at her reprimand.

Feeling pity for her brother, she shook her head desperately. "Erchirion," his sadly spoken name allowed him to raise his head and gaze at her with hope. "I am sorry, brother... For your loss," Lothíriel said softly, referring to the death of the child's mother.

Erchirion nodded solemnly and before he could say anything else, Lothíriel stepped close to embrace him with all the love she could muster.

He clung to her as one would cling to sinking ship. And beneath the taut muscles of his strong frame, she could feel his tremors as if they were her own. Eventually, only Imrahil's hand upon her shoulder pulled her back to reality. Pulling away from her brother, she looked at her father questioningly.

"Erchirion has a request to make of you, Lothíriel," Imrahil offered.

Nodding seriously, Lothíriel looked back at her brother. He shifted under her scrutiny before speaking. "The knowledge of my indiscretion has not yet been made public, sister. Nor is it intended. I do not wish for father to suffer because of my folly and," he paused, looking at his father. Imrahil nodded gravely for Erchirion to continue. "It is my wish that you and Éomer take this child and raise him in Rohan... I know it is much to ask of you, little sister. But it is the only solution I can offer at present..."

The words had been spoken, but it took Lothíriel a great deal of time to comprehend her brother's request. Slowly, her mind numb to all else, she turned to gaze at Éomer and found him staring at her intently. He nodded for her to answer; it was obvious that he seemed to have no objections to Erchirion's wish. It must have been discussed with him prior to this day.

Lothíriel exhaled loudly, feeling completely stunned and taken aback by the events occurring around her. What in Varda's name was she to do?

Whatever would come of this, she knew that she would have to speak with her husband before making any sort of decision.

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**NB: **Lothíriel's overbearing reaction to Erchirion's child is justified. Tolkien was Catholic therefore sex before marriage was considered taboo and unheard of, this is noted in HoMe as well; it just wasn't done. I know it seems far-fetched to us now, but such occurrences would not have been the norm for people in those times, especially nobility. Let's face it, if every person went around romping as they pleased, Tolkien's world would have been full of unwanted children. It is fine that many stories portray the princes to be slightly adventurous, and while that may be ok, it's not the case in this story. I hope this note clears up any confusion :-) Oh, and Erchirion's son will not be Elfwine. 

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**Added Notes:** I have to congratulate Saccopelista! ;hugs; She made the observation that many have overlooked, I have been trying to make Lothíriel somewhat unlovable, like the great Scarlet O'Hara. I really, honestly, hate that woman. Drives me completely bonkers. I've noticed that most writers tend to make Lothíriel quite likeable in their stories and I wanted to do something different. However, I am glad to say that she will change and become a character that everyone will be fond of. It only makes it real if there are flaws in a person's characteristics, don't you think?

Anyway, there is no rest for the wicked.I'm sure this new development will certainly put kinks in Éomer and Lothíriel's relationship, but Lothíriel still has to accept Erchirion's wish. Whatever will she do? I know... I love to be evil. But worry not, this will not affect the development you will see between Éomer and Lothíriel smirk Hopefully, an update will be available during the middle of the week, where Éomer is in the spotlight. Fingers crossed.

Thanks to _Blue Eyes At Night, lady scribe of avandell, plzkthx101, EruntaleofRohan, dferveiro, wondereye, buttercup7, Enigmatic Irish and Flying Pheonix_,for reviewing. I love reading all of your comments, they really do make my day! Until next time, hugs and kisses all around.


	20. Rising Sun

**Author's Note:** There can be no forgiveness because I have been far too neglectful. A bout of personal problems has hit like a thunderstorm and I was left wavering upon the brink of abandoning my writing for good. But it seems that I'm drawn back by my love for this story and for you, the readers. Updates may be slow in coming, but I will see this through to the end. I hope you can forgive me for the length delay.

**WARNING:** The beginning and end of this chapter is rated R for sexual implications and a bit of angst. Nothing too graphic, but you have been warned.

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**By the Sea.**

Chapter Twenty: Rising Sun.

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Dawn was approaching, though it could not be seen through the grey clouds that swirled in the distance.

He closed his eyes, feeling imaginary warm hands sliding up through his tunic as they caressed his bare back. Whispered words of love trickled into the sensitive folds of his ear as the hands came around to his front, encircling him within soft warm arms as the palms caressed the taut muscles of his chest; fingers curling in the fine hair that was peppered there. The hands tapered down to the ridges of his abdomen, tracing the dents with reverence. "_I love you... I love you so, I can scarce breathe._" Her voice echoed within him, resounding in the depths of his soul. He groaned quietly, feeling her hands work their way down to his tightening groin, through the top of his leggings before—

"Lothíriel," a wanton sigh escaped him as he remained with his arm propped against the wall above his head. He opened his eyes to the window, the view of the plains before him... The hands were gone; her voice vanished, evaporated into thin air. Melancholy simmered upon his brow.

"Still brooding?" Éothain remarked casually, entering the small library.

Elfhelm started but turned with a smirk, "What if I am?"

"You've been too quiet since your return from Edoras," Éothain paused, "Has something happened?"

The air grew still as the Marshal stared at his comrade and friend.

How could one expel the truth of his folly? How could one admit to the ungainly thoughts that plagued him so fiercely? That, within the deepest corners of his heart, he wished to possess the body, mind and soul of someone that did not belong to him; a woman that he lusted after and longed for, even in his waking hours. It would be madness to do so. And even if he could, there were no words of regret to absolve him of his countless sins. How could he tell his friend that his very own hands and fingers sought personal gratification each night, but that he always dreamt of her in the throes of his lonely passion. And that in the end, in his mind, her hands always replaced his own and brought him pleasure... Every thought, every dream, every time he spilled his seed in her name was a crime and a curse.

It was something he had to endure alone. "Nothing out of the ordinary."

A barking laugh was the only response he received. Swiftly changing the subject, Éothain gestured towards the scrolls upon the desk as he removed his riding gloves, his cheeks red and hair windblown from his recent arrival at the fortress of Aldburg. "Still working on the guard rotations?"

Moving away from the window, Elfhelm nodded absently and grimaced at his hidden nether-regions as he lowered himself into the sturdy wooden chair. He motioned for his friend to mirror his actions in the seat across from the table, before pouring them each a goblet of wine.

Éothain toasted his friend and sipped the rich liquid, dearly wishing for a mug of ale instead but knowing that ale and paperwork did not mix well.

"How are the Western borders?" Elfhelm questioned thoughtlessly.

"Did you not receive my tidings?"

"Aye, I did; but I would hear it from you."

Snorting, Éothain took another sip. "All is quiet on the Eastern front. The men are restless. Only a few skirmishes with the more daring Orc tribes," he shook his head, "It is good to be free from—" he stopped, catching the distant glaze over his friend's face. Holding back a groan, Éothain leaned forward and waved his hand in front of the Marshal's face, snapping him back to attention.

Blinking, Elfhelm flushed. "Forgive me. Continue."

Scowling deeply, the Rider folded his arms. "You were brooding again."

"I see you take great pleasure in reminding me."

"What is it?" Éothain demanded succinctly.

"Noth—"

"—And do not say nothing is the matter!" He interrupted fiercely.

Expelling a deeply embedded sigh, Elfhelm sank lower into his chair. "I am tired."

"Ha! A likely tale."

"Tis the truth." He had found no rest for his thoughts had been with _her_. Always with her.

Swirling the wine in his goblet, Éothain pondered the faraway look he received. "You have been like this since your return from Edoras," he prodded again. "Would it have anything to do with pale peach skin, raven hair and sky blue eyes?"

Elfhelm scowled uncomfortably. "Too bold, Éothain, too bold."

"You are pining like a moon-calf," the Rider accused.

"I do not pine!"

"Prove it. Go and take your frustrations out in a brothel. You need a good tumble, my friend."

"What I need, I cannot have," Elfhelm mumbled darkly.

"Do not do it, Elfhelm," Éothain murmured quietly, "Do not tread on this path of ruin."

"Gamling said much the same," the Marshal frowned down at the stack of scrolls in his vision.

"The Captain knows?" Fear pepperer Éothain's voice.

"Aye; a folly on my part but I was put in my place. It is why I have returned."

"Good, the Captain is wise." Éothain nodded, thankful that the Captain had enough sense to steer Elfhelm away, lest something untoward happen.

Fingering his jaw, Elfhelm turned and peered out of the window once more, imagining his fingers tangled in midnight black hair; blue eyes gazing up with adoration as he moved above and within—he stopped, shaking himself away from another blasphemous reverie. Ever since that damn kiss, he had been acting like an unschooled virgin. "Why is there a tendency to overly romanticise the people we love?" He found himself asking quietly.

Tilting his head, Éothain shrugged and followed his friend's gaze out of the window to the darkened clouds. "I do not have an answer for that, Elfhelm," he replied softly.

"It was like the awakening of spring..."

"What was?"

"Realising the love I had within. The love I had for _her_. It was all so new and fresh, blossoming—but fleeting, as spring always is." Elfhelm laughed ironically, "Béma, I have lost myself in a dream, Éothain!"

"Mayhap the Valar will be kind enough to reunite you with your lady-love in another world and time..." The Rider settled his goblet upon the desk before standing. "But for now, perhaps it is time to awaken from this dream, brother."

A vision of his love laughing, dressed in blue silk with dark hair tumbling about her pale shoulders and down her back, flickered before him in the rumbling clouds. A mirage dangling out of his reach. "Yes, perhaps you are right," he murmured softly. "Perhaps it is time."

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The sky was ablaze, burnished by the rising sun. Delicate colours of amber and pale pink streaked the fluffy clouds that rolled by above her head, casting a comforting shade from the dazzling morning that would soon follow the spectacular golden globe of the sun.

Lothíriel chuckled quietly at the rolling sea waves that lapped teasingly at her bare toes. Her gown was sodden beneath her from the damp sand, but she did not care a wit. She was too enamoured by the beauty of the balmy morning as she sat before the sea, to notice such trivial things as wet clothing.

A contented sigh and yawn caused her to look down at the tightly wrapped bundle that rested in her arms. She smiled down fondly at the curious grey eyes peering at her with fascination. At her father's encouragement, she had taken the child into her care for the remainder of the day. Whatever the circumstance he was borne from, he was a precious child and he was her nephew. It gave her much joy to care for him, contrary to her prior unwarranted outburst.

Unable to resist, Lothíriel gently raised the child and placed a gentle kiss upon his brow. He burbled and twisted his head with a wrinkled nose. As he did so, Lothíriel had to admit that her brother's son would be a heart breaker once he came of age. The boy was positively adorable in every respect! She laughed and caressed his soft rose petal cheek with the index finger of her free hand. "Yes," she murmured to herself, "You will certainly break hearts, little one."

The babe replied with a gurgle and bubble of spit.

Grinning, Lothíriel wiped away the spittle with the corner of her sleeve before resuming her watch of the rising sun. Moments later, the peace was shattered.

"I knew that I would find you here," a familiar voice spoke out, breaking the tranquillity of the awe-inspiring morning.

"Erchirion," she acknowledged softly.

He sat down heavily beside her, his feet free from the restraint of boots upon sand. With a lingering gaze at the child in her arms, he cast his eyes upon the spectacle of the sea before him.

They sat in silence for a number of minutes before Lothíriel spoke, "I am sorry, dear brother; for my harsh behaviour. Can you forgive me?"

"I have been forgiving you since you were a babe, little sister. Why should I stop now?" He chuckled wryly, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "I understand. You were worried for the child's welfare. But if you choose to take him into your house, he will be happy with you in Rohan."

"And you?" She accused softly, rocking the child in her arms and dismissing the ache in her heart at the loss of her own daughter.

"What of me?"

"Will you be happy?"

Erchirion smiled sadly. "I am always happy, can you not tell?"

"Brother," Lothíriel reprimanded softly, "You cannot fool me. I see pain in your eyes when I should see pride for begetting such a fine son."

"Lothíriel," her brother mimicked before growing serious. "Do you wish me to fall to pieces over my bastard son and his dead mother?"

Appalled, she shook her head. "Never."

"Then cease your questioning and accept my wishes."

Frowning, Lothíriel placed her cheek against his shoulder and found herself being held when she should have been the one to comfort. "And he is not a bastard," she mumbled sternly, "He is perfect."

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Only the sound of the rushing sea waves coming from the open balcony doors could be heard in the airy chamber. Night had descended swiftly upon them that day, but the hours had been filled with much contemplation and thought for the young Queen of Rohan after the encounter with her brother upon the beach. There was so much to consider...

At length, Lothíriel could stand the silence no more and she spoke up, startling her husband out of his own reverie. "May I be frank?" She asked, lacing up the simple cords of her nightgown together before she began to unravel her hair from the prison of it's thick braid.

She bit her lip when Éomer eyed her closely as she combed her long fingers through the dark tresses of her hair. Though he had not spoken to her during the remainder of the day and Lothíriel was at her wits end, a simple look from him sent a delightful shiver down her spine that she could not ignore. It bothered her that he could affect her in such a manner, especially when she did not understand it's meaning.

Éomer nodded, seemingly caught in his own thoughts as he sat down at the end of the bed to remove his boots.

"How can we take the child to Rohan? What would we say to our people?" She posed the questions somewhat hesitantly.

Our people. Éomer's eyes glinted as he pondered the question momentarily. "Your father and I have discussed this at length," he finally responded. "It would be best if we took him in as an adopted son; an orphan he will be named, but that will not matter if we take him into our house... The people of Rohan will not question our authority nor the authenticity of such claims. They know that only a son born of my blood will be heir to the throne. It will be of no consequence."

"Would that be wise; to lie?"

He stayed quiet for a few seconds, continuing the mute task of removing his boots. "Nay," he answered softly, "It would not be advisable, but I can see no other options. Your brother does not wish to keep him in Dol Amroth, the child would only be scorned wherever he went." Éomer paused, glancing at her in askance. "What say you to Erchirion's request? Do you wish to accept?"

As her husband's dark eyes bore into the depths of her very heart and mind, his gaze reminded Lothíriel of being stabbed by a jewelled dagger that could plunge into the very core of a soul. It seemed that he could see all that was written in the secret tomes of her mind. Catching her breath, Lothíriel exhaled slowly. "I am..." She frowned, trailing off as her husband rose from the edge of the bed, before manoeuvring himself to stand before her.

His face alluded to nothing but Lothíriel took note of his pensive form. "You are?" He prompted, his voice coarse like the thatched roofs of his homeland.

Swallowing, Lothíriel tore her eyes away from the allure of his beckoning brown pools. She looked at the floor with new-found interest. "I am uncertain; it may not be a good environment for the child."

"How so?" Gently, he clasped her chin and forced her to look at him.

Lothíriel reluctantly allowed herself to be swept away by his beguiling and enchanting manner. "Your memory has not been fully restored and until that time, I do not think it would be appropriate to make such decisions," she conceded. "Éomer," Lothíriel boldly took his hand, squeezing the appendage with purpose. "That child is no toy; he breathes and feels. He lives! One cannot make such decisions about adoption lightly. We would have to give this child everything; all our love and devotion, which I am _more_ than willing to give, but are you ready for such a commitment? Will Rohan be so accepting of their King's adopted son? There is so much to consider, so much we must determine."

"Your claims are just, Lothíriel," he said gently. "But can you turn your back on your brother?"

Lothíriel frowned bitterly. "That is another thing." He gave her a questioning glance and Lothíriel obliged him with a thin smile. "I cannot take my brother's son from him..."

"Do you despise the idea of adopting this child?" He asked belligerently, pulling away from her to pace their chambers.

"Of course not!" She cried indignantly, thinking back to the loss of their own child. "I am not unwilling but... I know my brother," the sad intonation of her words caught Éomer by surprise. He halted his steps shook his head in confusion. Lothíriel offered him a dejected glance as she moved to stand between the doorway of their chambers and the balcony. The wind blew softly against her cheeks, soothing them in a kindly gesture of comfort.

"Lothíriel?"

Sighing, Lothíriel turned back to her husband, speaking so quietly that he had to strain to hear her words, "I know my brother more than he realises. Beneath the veneer of joviality, he will be heartbroken if we take his son from him." She plopped down onto the nearby chair, staring at her hands desolately. She was startled from her thoughts as Éomer swiftly knelt before her, his brow furrowed in thought.

"I understand your words, but we must also think of the child," he said slowly. "If the condition of his birth is found out, it would only bring him misery. People will whisper and set him aside from any further children you brother may have as a husband."

Lothíriel chuckled wryly, "Our life is such a quandary. What a fine mess we are both in!" Her hateful laughter subsided as tears pricked her eyes. Éomer saw them glisten and before she could even protest, he placed a kiss upon her brow and gathered her into his steely arms. She tried not to be startled by this first outward gesture of affection, but it gnawed at her nonetheless. Her insides trembled and quailed when she felt herself being drawn against his burly chest, all rational thought flowing from her mind. What did he mean by his warm actions towards her? Only time would tell...

Gently, he placed her upon the large bed and backed away. "Sleep; we will find the answer in the next rising sun."

Lothíriel watched morosely as he sat down on a chair by the hearth. She reclined and slowly but surely, felt her eyes droop shut.

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_Hips moved in rhythm, sweat-slicked bodies twined together like woven straw. Sharp sapphire eyes smouldered. Her ebony hair tangled in his fists as he thrust. The scent of jasmine mixed with sex permeated the humid air that cocooned them. Oh Gods! Soft, feminine moans brought him ever closer... Ever closer to release._

Gasping, Elfhelm sat up from the dream that had enthralled him. Another day, another rising sun and another heated dream. Grimacing, he rubbed his face and scowled as he caught a whiff of his night-time endeavours on his fingertips.

Lowering his his head in shame, he breathed heavily. "Béma, woman, what have done to me!" He whispered harshly, slamming his fist into the empty space beside him. Her space...

Struggling with the coarse sheets he rose, naked, and paced the room. "How, Éothain, how do I shake myself from these thoughts?" He muttered to himself urgently, running a hand through the sodden strands of his golden hair. The exchange with his friends had been taken to heart, but how to go about it? Even now she haunted him, her smile, her laugh, her searing touch.

How would he ever exorcise her from his mind? Her lips had been burned into his memory for all time, their sweet taste he could still recall.

That one single kiss had been a mighty mistake, had awakened something almost as dreadful as Sauron himself. Unquenchable lust. He was only a man after all. But Béma, he lusted after her—_loved_ her to the point that he wanted her beneath him! His King's wife, his Queen...

His beloved.

Growling, Elfhelm clenched his fists and resisted the urge to throw something. Instead, he threw on his apparel and made his way towards the stables.

For him, there would be no peace in the rising sun this day.

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**AN: **Thank you to all the people who have reviewed this story so far. And thank you for your support, it is greatly appreciated.


	21. Reforge and Renew

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**By the Sea.**

Chapter Twenty-one: Reforge and Renew.

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Lothíriel did not know what to do.

She shifted nervously as she knelt beside her husband's slumbering form. An hour had passed in this manner since she heard his muffled snarls and growls coming from his resting place, and still she did not know what course of action to take. His brow was furrowed deeply and a ferocious scowl was plastered upon his face, as though he were witnessing something that was not to his liking. She remembered all too well how he had awoken from his previous nightmares and she was reluctant to touch him, lest he try to lash out again.

Sighing, she silently remained by his side as he slept fitfully in the large chair. There was nothing she could do to help him and that knowledge pained her more than she wished to admit. That she could not reach out and smooth out his wrinkled brow and caress his cheek to offer comfort was unbearable. And so, she sat and waited patiently for him to rouse himself.

How long she remained in the same position, she did not know. All that seemed to matter was that _he_ was suffering and she could do nothing to help him without causing him harm.

Lothíriel did not move, nor did her gaze stray from his angled face. Instead, she clutched the cushioned arm-rest and waited.

Eventually, after what felt like an age, Éomer started and stiffened his spine towards an unforeseeable threat.

Lothíriel drew back slightly, still on her knees at the side of his legs as she watched him open his eyes and regain focus of his surroundings. At length, his confused gaze settled upon her. "Lothíriel..?"

She frowned, noting the coarseness of his voice. Without offering an explanation, Lothíriel rose and retrieved a cup of water for him. He took it gratefully and downed the liquid in one go. She observed his hand rubbing his throat and once again moved to give him more water to soothe his parched mouth. "Would you like more?"

He nodded his appreciation and drank deeply before allowing her to retrieve the cup.

Taking the empty cup, she set it aside and she knelt before him once again. "Are you well?" She asked softly as he regained his composure.

There was a haunted look in his eyes. It's presence disturbed her deeply and without thinking, she clasped his hand and squeezed his battle-worn fingers with all the gentleness of a mother caressing her newborn.

Éomer nodded distractedly, barely aware of her fingers stroking his. "I am fine..." He grunted before looking at her impassively. "I am sorry I woke you. You should return to your rest; truly, I am well."

Instinctively, she knew that he was trying to convince himself. Ignoring his obvious command, she looked at him sincerely. "What did you see?" She questioned, referring to his dream.

The King of Rohan shrugged carelessly before glaring down at the floor.

He was diverted from his introspection as he glanced at the pale, thin fingers that were now entwined with his own upon the indigo arm-rest. For some reason unknown to him, he could not remove them from her firm but gentle grasp. They brought him a sense of comfort and relief, something he did not know they could ever bring. Her presence before this night had brought only confusion to him. Comfort was a welcome, but unexpected sensation in place of his uneasiness. Reluctantly, Éomer spoke; "I dreamt of a battle. Béma, it was a fearsome battle but amidst the desperation it held much hope. I do not recall participating in this battle physically, though in my mind it seemed familiar to me. I saw... I saw—" he drew in a deep, shaky breath and closed his eyes as he exhaled.

"What? What did you see?" Lothíriel prompted quietly.

Only the subtle stroke of Lothíriel's fingers urged him to continue.

"My uncle," he choked. "His death. My sister, my foolish sister." There was no emotion in his flat, unyielding voice and Lothíriel wanted to embrace away the pain that belied his stoic manner.

"I did not believe it before; that my memory was addled," he whispered to himself, "But now he is truly gone. It was no dream. Never in my darkest thoughts could I have conjured such a death for him... I-it was no dream." And with that, his stoicism slipped and crashed to the floor, shattering into a million pieces about her as he buried his face in his free hand, though no tears would fall from his dry eyes.

Lothíriel did not know if he could weep for his uncle just yet. She did not know if he would ever be able to weep for the man that had been his second father. How could he, when all he had were tattered and fragmented memories that came to him in his sleep? But she knew one thing. She would see his smile return along with his memory and perhaps... Perhaps she could give him some reprieve from the torment he endured in the night.

Without another word she rose from the floor and stood before him, releasing the fingers she had held captive during his confession. His body tensed as she gathered his head to her chest and tucked it beneath her chin, but she held him nonetheless; close to her heart. Kissing the crown of his head chastely, she slowly rubbed his back, knowing that no words would ever offer him the comfort he so desired.

The time passed by but the shadows of the night remained and gradually, Éomer relaxed in her arms. Slowly, ever so slowly, she felt his strong and sturdy arms encircle her waist to squeeze her tightly. The elation she felt in his acceptance of her embrace knew no boundaries and it would have run free if she was still not so concerned by the awkwardness and pain that emanated from his shoulders.

Drawing back, Lothíriel cupped his cheeks in her small hands and smiled down at him as he looked at her with unfathomable honey-tinted eyes. "Come to bed," she implored quietly, "You must rest and you will not find it in this chair."

Éomer's expression turned dubious at her bold request and he was about to turn down the offer when he noticed the stern glint in her sea-blue eyes. She would not be swayed in this, no matter how much he protested. Sighing wearily, he pulled away from her arms that had offered a small amount of solace, and rose to follow Lothíriel across the room to the large bed near the open balcony windows.

With much aplomb she motioned for him to sleep on the bed.

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes at her demanding behaviour, Éomer turned down the covers that had not been disturbed and slipped into the inviting sheets, leaving space on the other rumpled side for the wife he did not remember. The moment he stretched out upon the bed, it seemed as if all his muscles groaned with relief. For a while, he lay back and watched with bewilderment as Lothíriel pulled up another chair to rest by the bed at his side.

He hid his surprise as she sat down and wrapped herself in a shawl, tucking her legs beneath her. Opening his mouth to question her actions, he stopped as he caught her smiling oddly at him. "Sleep," Lothíriel murmured, turning to find a comfortable position on the chair that seemed to dwarf her with it's sheer size.

If she burrowed any further, she would most likely drown in the cushion and her shawl. No matter how awkward the situation, it would not do for him to sleep on the bed whilst she endured the chair. He could not allow such a thing. "But—"

"—Éomer," she interrupted firmly, "Good night." With that odd smile still in place, Lothíriel closed her eyes and retreated to her own dreams.

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"Steady on!"

Elfhelm checked himself at the last and drew back, his sword still swinging dangerously. Narrowing his eyes, he slowly inspected his comrade and friend for any unnecessary injuries.

"This is a spar, Elfhelm," Eorllic growled, "Not an all-out brawl!"

His brow winged in response. "With the way you fight, I thought it was a brawl," he remarked caustically, earning a glare from the blue-eyed man.

Smirking, Elfhelm looked up at the position of the sun. It would not be long before he and Eorllic would ride out with a few other men of his _éored_ to the guarded posts on the Eastern borders. The men of the King's council were doing well in his stead to secure the lands and though trade between Gondor and Rohan was flowing well, it was still a dangerous task importing and exporting goods. It seemed that some men outside their borders on the road had other ideas about the goods being traded.

"We should ready our horses and make out for the Eastern posts. I received word from Edoras that the King's council wishes for us to see in a shipment of goods from Gondor," Elfhelm said, wiping the sweat from his brow.

Eorllic groaned and collapsed to the straw-covered ground. "What happened to the days when fighting Orcs was our greatest problem? Now they would have us coddle some goods from Gondor? I tell you Elfhelm, this will lead to mutiny."

Grunting, Elfhelm sheathed his sword and joined his friend on the ground. "I know. This is not the job of our men but traders and their wagons are being attacked, even though they are escorted by guards from Gondor, which makes it our problem. It seems that some people still do not wish for peace and alliance between our countries."

"I wish they would find something else to do besides harass us. But I do long for a good hard ride across the plains! I'm feeling stifled by just carefully patrolling the borders and remaining within the walls of Aldburg."

Elfhelm chuckled darkly. "You need a wife, my friend. I am sure you would not be complaining then."

"You're one to talk," Eorllic cried, leaning up on his elbows as he gazed at his superior and friend. "The men are beginning to wonder why you have never found a bride. Take heed Marshal, soon you will be too old to beget a family and then where will you be?"

"I am a Rider," Elfhelm snarled mockingly, "I have no need for a family."

"You say that now, but what will happen when you are old and step down from your post? You will need a family around you then to keep you busy."

Elfhelm opened his mouth by looked away in consternation. "You talk too much," he grumbled.

"So... No fair lady has caught your eye then?"

The Marshal blinked and focused on the ground before him, a blush staining his cheeks.

Eorllic crowed with triumph and sat up eagerly, his wavy blonde hair falling loose from it's tie. "Who is she?"

"There is no one."

"Liar; it's written on your face!"

"Béma's balls, Eorllic, let it go!"

Disappointed, the younger Rider sat back and watched him in silence.

Elfhelm drew in a shaky breath, his thoughts racing away from him as the other men in the training pen faded away. Just when he had forgotten, it all came flooding back with Eorllic's words. Would he ever have peace? His dreams were still accosted by her smile, her touch, her scent. There was nothing he could do.

He cursed the day he ever met her! He cursed the day he had felt her lips upon his... The guilt that gnawed at him was unfathomable. It ate away at his insides like a warg feasting upon man-flesh. By nature, he was a noble and honourable man; so why did his thoughts continue to pursuit the unattainable? His common sense told him his feelings were akin to treason, but his heart, his damnable heart would not cast her aside. Cursing softly, he rose and caught Eorllic's troubled eye. "Get your stead ready," he said gruffly, "We ride out at noon."

Nodding slowly, Eorllic stood and brushed away the straw that clung to his leggings and tunic. "Marshal Elfhelm?" He began uneasily. Upon the Elfhelm's enquiring gaze, the younger Rider smiled sadly. "She would be a fool not to love you... Whoever she is."

Elfhelm froze, his eyes glazing over with pain. "Not a word, Eorllic," he uttered quietly.

"Upon my honour, this will stay between us." Eorllic placed a comforting hand upon his Marshal's shoulder before moving away. Elfhelm stared after him, the uncertainty of what had transpired between them still lingering in the air like a putrid stench.

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Blue eyes crossed and a tongue stuck out.

The babe laying upon the bed beside her snorted and giggled at the ludicrous sight of Lothíriel's face twisted in such a manner.

Laughing, Lothíriel drew her face nearer to kiss the silky soft skin of his cheek that all new-born babies were graced with. Inhaling the luscious scent of her brother's son, she tickled his tiny ribs and allowed him to pull at the dark strands of her unbound hair. She must look a sight, with her hair tangled and the ends most assuredly drenched in drool.

"Evil child... You are, without a doubt, your father's son," she cooed playfully, earning another cackle as the child rubbed his fingers against her face and promptly poked them up her nose. Still chuckling, she pulled his fingers away and pretended to bite them.

He yanked her hair unbound with his free hand, as if in warning. Lothíriel winced and was about to respond when she heard a snort coming from the doorway.

She froze, stiffening as she recognised the deep, resonating laugh that seemed to wrap around her. Slowly, she allowed her eyes to drift to the entrance of the private chambers and saw her husband leaning against the door-frame with a devilish smirk plastered across his handsome face. "You have spit in your hair," he observed coolly.

"Yes, thank you," she huffed teasingly, "I know perfectly well that I am covered in baby drool." Lothíriel held back a grin as he laughed again and drew nearer to the bed, seating himself comfortably on the other side of her brother's son.

The past few days had been... Strange, to say the least. Though Éomer still seemed distant after she had awoken him from the ordeal of his nightmare, he was also conversing with her more intimately than he had been before that night. At times it felt forced, as though he was struggling to find the words but on the whole, he was slowly beginning to grow comfortable in her presence. It was an improvement she was not willing to cast aside lightly.

"You look troubled," she noted dutifully, raking the pad of her finger along the baby's arm.

Éomer started at her words and frowned as he watched quietly. "I sent word to my sister of our arrival. She wishes for us to visit after our journey to Minas Tirith."

Lothíriel looked up sharply, her eyes clouding in thought. "I had not informed you sister about your condition before we left Rohan... Your council and I thought it best for it to remain in Meduseld. It would have caused undue worry for her. I hope you understand."

He nodded in agreement. "Still, I have returned to some semblance of normalcy and it is my wish to see her again," he paused and glanced at her intently. "She is with child."

Lothíriel's eyes brightened at the news. "That is happy news indeed! Faramir must be walking on air," she laughed.

Éomer's lips quirked before he grew serious. "Tell me about him."

"Faramir is one of the best men I know," she began fondly. "He is my cousin; my aunt Finduilas' son. His father was Denethor, the late Steward of Gondor and his brother was Boromir, of the Nine. They both fell during the War of the Ring." She looked to Éomer and noted that he comprehended her cousin's lineage. He had been briefed about the current affairs of state by her father and most probably Gamling. "But you want to know about the man behind the parentage, correct?"

"Yes... Is he a good man? Worthy enough for my sister?"

"More than worthy," Lothíriel conceded happily, "He is kind, noble and honourable. Soft-spoken at times but his childhood is mostly the cause of that. But if you delve beneath it, you will find that he has a wit and humour to fill all of Arda!" She chuckled to herself as she thought about her cousin; she sorely missed him!

"You speak very highly of him," Éomer said thoughtfully, his eyes narrowed. "Though, I cannot believe that my sister would choose such a soft-spoken man."

"Éomer," Lothíriel reached out and held his hand as she tickled the baby in her care, "Your sister is _very_ happy and much in love."

Releasing his breath, the King of Rohan's shoulders sagged with relief.

"What will happen to him?" Lothíriel asked suddenly, caressing her nephew's forehead. "Should we leave him here if we wish to adopt him into your household?" Her eyes grew troubled as she looked at Éomer.

"So, you have changed your mind?" Éomer asked, amusement simmering in his dark eyes.

"I know not... I love him dearly," she whispered, looking at the child with a saddened gaze. "But my brother..."

"The babe will still have to remain here until he is able to travel. We must pay our respects to Aragorn and then visit my sister; I wish to return to Edoras as soon as possible... Perhaps, if you and your brother are willing, we can send for him once we return to Rohan?"

"Yes, that would be the best course..." She trailed off and looked down with a frown.

A definite smell slowly wafted up from the baby and Lothíriel laughed loudly as saw Éomer crinkle his nose. It was as if the child knew he was being discussed.

Drawing back, Lothíriel took the smelly child in her arms and raised a brow at her husband. "Are you willing to participate or shall I deal with this little monster alone?" She taunted and bit back another laugh as Éomer curled his lip in disgust and panic.

He cleared his throat nervously. "No, no, I shall leave you to it." Jumping up from the bed, he all but ran out of the room.

At his hasty retreat Lothíriel's mirth bubbled over and she laughed as she had not done in a very long time.

Still giggling, she placed a sound kiss upon the baby's forehead and said lovingly, "I have never seen your uncle move so fast, little one!"

The baby cooed at her words.

"Yes," she nodded sagely, "And he calls himself a warrior and a King; running from a smelly little baby! I tell you, men are useless." Again, she chuckled and rose from the bed to deal with the soiled child in her arms. "I sincerely hope you will be braver than that when you are older."

As she went about her business, Lothíriel did not notice that the figure of Rohan's King was leaning against the wall outside their chambers. A gentle smile was upon his face as he listened to every endearment that she uttered.

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**Added Notes:** Once again, thank you to the reviewers. I hope you enjoyed this lighter chapter.


	22. Minas Tirith

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**By the Sea.**

Chapter Twenty-two: Minas Tirith.

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The time to leave Dol Amroth had come sooner than she wished. But in her heart, Lothíriel was ready to depart from her childhood home. Before the time of their departure, her family had congregated in Imrahil's personal library, content to say their goodbyes away from the public eye.

Lothíriel hugged her father farewell and smiled as he bent to gently kiss her brow. "I shall miss having you here, daughter."

"Do not lie, _Ada_," she teased lightly. "I know you are eager to be rid of us. The horses belonging Éomer's men are taking up too much space in your stables and I can see that you wish for some peace!"

Imrahil chuckled sheepishly. "Yes, there is that." He sighed, "I will never understand the reverence they hold for horses, as I am sure they will never understand why we covet the sea."

Lothíriel laughed as she remembered the particular day she had persuaded Éomer and the two men of his personal guard to join a sailing excursion she had put together for her family. It had been an... interesting day, to say the least. She had never seen her husband so unsure about anything as she had when he stepped foot on the boat. Much laughter had occurred that day at Éomer's expense and her brothers had shown him no quarter to defend himself. But he took it all in with a good-natured smile and thoroughly thrashed them in the training ring after the outing.

Her brothers had not been pleased but Lothíriel was hard pressed not to say they deserved it.

That evening, as she and her husband spoke to one another amiably in their chambers, he announced that it would be a long time before he could be persuaded to step foot on another boat. But there was nothing to be done about it as she reminded him, much to his chagrin, that they would be journeying to Minas Tirith on her father's Swan ship; the Rohirrims' horses, most of the luggage and a few of her husband's men would be travelling by road, but she and Éomer would reach the White City much quicker by the sea and river now that it was safer to use such means of transportation.

She bit back a laugh as she remembered the anguished expression on his face which he tried to cover with a brave mien.

Her father raised a brow at her secret amusement but Lothíriel shook her head gently and moved on to say goodbye to her elder brothers.

From the corner of her eye she could see Éomer speaking quietly with her father and she held back another smile as she saw the depth of respect and admiration in her husband's gaze as he listened to the words his sworn father.

"Honestly, sometimes I swear you have nothing between your ears, Lothíriel," Amrothos huffed mockingly.

Lothíriel smiled serenely and turned to look at the youngest of her brothers. "Whatever can you mean, dear brother?" She asked innocently.

Shaking his head with faked frustration, Amrothos cupped her cheek and kissed her nose playfully. He grinned boyishly as she swatted him away. "You know exactly what I mean, my little _Oyster_."

Putting on her best queenly face, Lothíriel sneered down her nose at her troublesome grey-eyed sibling. "Must you call me that? I am not so vile-looking as an oyster."

"And what else, pray tell, would you have me call you? Perhaps I should dub you _Stingray_ or _Cockleshell_?"

Giggling at the ridiculous turn of the conversation, she waved her hand with authority. "Cockleshell shall be fine. Anything but _Oyster_."

Amrothos heaved a deep sigh and bowed dramatically, "As my Lady Cockleshell bids, so I shall dub thee!"

"I believe neither of you have anything between your ears," Elphir interrupted, snorting as he listened to their conversation with a poorly hidden grin.

"Brother!" She hugged Elphir, her eyes twinkling. "I hope you realise that I do have a little more wit than you and Amrothos combined."

Amrothos cried out in protestation.

Elphir merely smiled as he drew back and pointed a finger in her face. "Behave."

Lothíriel grabbed the offending appendage, shaking her head.

The siblings laughed together, but their mirth soon faded as they noticed Erchirion did not share in their amusement. He stood by the window and continued to gaze out longingly at the sea beyond the sandy shore.

Remembering that all the descendants of the Royal family of Dol Amroth tended to turn to the sea in times of grief, Lothíriel placed placating hands upon her brothers' shoulders as she moved towards Erchirion.

She embraced his rigid stance as best she could. He did not seem to move, nor notice her but Lothíriel could see a shadow glaze his grey-blue eyes as she wrapped her arms about him. Eventually, he reciprocated the embrace by sighing and pressing his cheek to the top of her head. "All will be well," she murmured, her heart aching for her brother. She knew that he loved his son, but what else was there to be done for a bastard? Lothíriel hated that word. To call a child, any child, such a cruel name grated at her like poisoned nails.

Lowering Erchirion to her height, she spoke fervently and only for his ears. "There is still time. Tell Ada you wish for him to be formally adopted in your name. People will speak, but then they always do when it comes to court intrigue, rumours and gossip. It may or may not hurt _Ada's_ reputation but you know he will do whatever he can for you. It was _your _wish that he be sent to Rohan, not Ada's." She looked her brother imploringly as she hugged him tighter. "Éomer will not take your son into his household until we return to Rohan," again Lothíriel smiled sadly as she uttered words of hope; "There is still time."

Inhaling sharply, Erchirion nodded and managed a faint smile.

"I love you, brother, with all my heart. It grieves me to see you suffer with so much doubt and despair."

Staring at her briefly, Erchirion lowered his head slightly in acknowledgement of her words. "And I, you. It has been too quiet without you here, Lothíriel."

She knew that he did not wish to speak about his troubles and so she respected his wishes and remained silent. "Too quiet? Oh I believe you shall not miss one selfish creature of a sister."

"Selfish, maybe. But you are changing for the better," he grinned.

Rolling her eyes, Lothíriel pulled away as she heard Éomer's cough. "Take care, _muindor nín_."

"Take care," he echoed absently.

And so it was, she left with a heavy heart.

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"How do you stand it?"

Lothíriel started with surprise as Éomer's voice sliced through her heavy thoughts. The ship was steadily making it's way along the coastal fief of Belfalas.

It was not yet noon as they had made an early start from the port of Dol Amroth and so with the free time, she found herself up on the deck, near the keel of the ship as she watched her father's princedom glide past, the cool breeze ruffling her braided hair.

"Stand what?" She finally questioned with confusion, looking at her husband with large eyes as he joined her near the keel.

Éomer motioned discreetly to her personal guard from Dol Amroth, standing a few feet away from them. "Since I do not remember my time as King," he began lowly, "I have not become accustomed to having guards trailing my every move." He smiled wryly, "How do you stand it? It vexes me beyond words to have my freedom so thoroughly taken away."

Lothíriel chuckled and shrugged gracefully. "I know not, Éomer. It is not something I dwell upon. Many times I even forget they are there. Perhaps, when I was younger and visiting my cousins in Minas Tirith, it bothered me terribly not to have the freedom to run around and do as I pleased. But as I grew, I came to understand that with Royalty and lineage, one must be ready for the unexpected. My father would take no chances with mine or my brothers' safety." She stopped and looked at him curiously. "You did not have a guard when you went to live with your uncle in Meduseld?"

Éomer grimaced but nodded. "When I was still a young lad. But then I became a Rider when I came of age and so it was unnecessary for me to have one, as I would often by thrown into danger on patrols. The years were dark and the land was rife with danger. A few years later, I was promoted to Third-Marshal with my own _éored _to look to but by then, my uncle was not in the right frame of mind to see to such petty things," he said rather dryly.

Silently, Lothíriel reached out and placed her hand over his as it rested upon the railing.

"You are a King now, Éomer," she soothed. "And after what happened the last time you rode out, your people are all the more worried about your safety. None know what happened to you in the east of Rohan and your men feared for you... I feared for you. So I can see why your councillors wish for you to have a guard; not that you are incapable of protecting yourself, of course," she added hastily.

"I hated having a guard when I was younger and living in the King's household," he continued softly. "I still abhor it." Éomer turned and barely held back a glare at his own guard, swathed in green and gold, hovering near him but far enough away that he could not hear their conversation.

There were not many people on deck, most of the Rohirrim men and women were in their cabins below, wishing for land. The captain of the ship was navigating and so, the King and Queen of Rohan almost had the deck of the ship to themselves. It was a nice change from the hustle and bustle that had surrounded them prior to their departure from Dol Amroth.

"I understand the need for safety," Éomer growled to himself. "But Béma, we are on a ship with trusted people from Rohan and Dol Amroth! I do not see what they could protect us from out here," he waved at the rippling waves beyond the ship and towards the shoreline of Belfalas.

"There are pirates," Lothíriel murmured so quietly and innocently, that she saw Éomer falter for a brief second before a deep chuckle erupted from him.

"Yes," he finally agreed, smiling. "There are those, I suppose."

Smiling in return, Lothíriel patted his hand. "Give it a few more weeks and you will hardly know that he is there. It was safe in Dol Amroth but your guard, and mine, were still there to do their duty and not to burden us. And they will be with us in Minas Tirith and Ithilien until we return to Edoras."

"Yes. You are right." Éomer blinked and frowned up at the cloudless sky. "Come," he offered his arm without preamble.

Startled, she gazed at him blankly but took his arm. "Pardon?"

"It is almost noon and it will be too hot to remain on deck unless you are accustomed to it. I am taking you below," he smiled genuinely, a hint of concern glinting in his deep brown eyes.

Lothíriel stopped abruptly and allowed a sly expression to cross her face. "Oh? And how do you know that I am not '_accustomed_' to it?" She demanded haughtily.

Éomer's brow furrowed thoughtfully. "I do not—"

"—Ah," she interjected, "So you _assumed_ that I am not accustomed to riding on a ship in such weather? Are you implying that I – a daughter of Númenorean and elven descent – am unable to handle such a paltry journey on a ship because of the weather?"

The King of Rohan flushed imperceptibly at his presumption and reluctantly moved to release her arm but Lothíriel held it firmly in her grasp, her eyes glimmering with suppressed mirth. Leaning close, she whispered, "I am teasing you, my lord."

He looked at her strangely. "You are by far the oddest Lady I have ever come across."

Lothíriel smiled broadly. "You must learn to laugh at my idiocy, King Éomer. Or else all your days will be filled with looks such as the one you are giving me now!" Fluttering her eyelashes playfully, she lead him down below to their cabin with Éomer snorting and shaking his head at her strange sense of humour.

-

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-

A week passed without much excitement aboard the Swan ship, she had sailed majestically past the island of Tolfalas and was now steadily making her way up the Anduin towards the harbour at Osgiliath.

From what could be seen as they neared it, the city was a shadow of it's former self but repairs were slowly being made and the progress was clearly visible to any who gazed upon it. It filled Lothíriel with hope to see that the destruction caused was gradually being wiped away. The joy of having a King upon Gondor's throne caused many a heart to lighten and the spirits of Gondor's people were still evidently rejoicing in the return of the King.

Éomer, meanwhile, felt doubt begin to creep into the corners of his heart. The last time he had seen his sworn brother, in his mind, was before he had ridden out with his men for Gondor. He wondered at the reception he would receive now, in times of peace. Was Aragorn still the same man he had once known in the midst of War? Or was he as changed as his name; King Elessar.

Only time would tell, but the ship was moving ever so slowly towards the docking bay of Osgiliath. And they were still a good few hours ride away from Minas Tirith.

-

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-

By nightfall, they were riding through the quiet streets of Minas Tirith towards the Citadel and the seventh ring of the city.

They were greeted at the Citadel gates by King Elessar himself and Queen Arwen; the Royal couple had been informed earlier about the arrival of the party from Rohan by messengers and Aragorn was already pacing with anticipation at seeing his dear friend once more. It had been far too long since they had last been in one another's company.

Lothíriel, at the front with her husband, smiled joyfully as Aragorn embraced Éomer as a brother.

Éomer returned the firm hug with surprise and equal enthusiasm.

"Long have I desired to see you again, brother!" Aragorn uttered sincerely, his eyes shining with pride.

After a short pause, Éomer returned the sentiment. "And I, you... Brother." Even though the word felt foreign to his mouth, oddly enough, he felt perfectly at ease with claiming Aragorn as his kin. Perhaps all would not be as awkward as it seemed.

The King of Gondor turned to Lothíriel and bowed politely, kissing her hand as was required. "_Mae govannen._ It is good to see you again, my lady-Queen."

"_Mae govannen_, my Lord-King Elessar," she curtseyed appropriately with deference and returned his grin before she and her husband turned to greet Arwen.

The Queen of Gondor was eyeing Éomer with such intensity, that he almost felt himself blush under her scrutiny. Her beauty was unparalleled; grey eyes the colour of glinting steel and hair the shade of a raven's wing, along with the most delicate features he had ever seen. It affected him like a kick in the stomach. He had heard of elven beauty but realised that she must have far surpassed the normal requirements. Éomer had to physically shake himself before he could bow in greeting and kiss her hand.

Lothíriel curtseyed again before she was swept up into a familiar hug by Arwen. As she pulled away, her face blanched as she caught the elven Queen looking at Éomer again with a unfathomable gaze. She knew that the King and Queen of Gondor had already been informed about Éomer's current condition, and she wondered at the elf's particular interest.

"You must be weary from your travels," Arwen began melodically, her voice hinting at nothing. "Your guest rooms have been readied for you in the King's House. Dinner will be served in the King's suite; our manservant will show you the way. A feast shall be held tomorrow in honour of your arrival."

Lothíriel smiled, "Thank you, my lady-Queen Arwen."

Arwen's laugh echoed beautifully around them, embracing all with it's comforting lilt. "Lothíriel, you should know better by now than to be so formal with me in my own home! Save that for when we are playing court to the other nobles of Gondor." The group laughed before she continued. "Come now, I can see that your journey has been taxing and I would have you rest before supper."

Lothíriel nodded in ascent.

Throughout the interaction, Aragorn's eyes had narrowed as he inspected his dear friend and King. Éomer stood rigidly, so unsure of himself and acting nothing like the man Aragorn knew him to be. Within in his heart, his piercing grey eyes could immediately see that something was wrong... Grievously wrong.

Though he had been informed about the King's condition, it still pained him to see his brother in such a state. Loss of memory was difficult to deal with and it had shown itself in the greeting he received from Éomer. It had been far more formal than Aragorn had ever experienced since their first meeting upon the plains of Rohan. And slowly, a nagging sensation tugged at his mind as he watched the King and Queen of Rohan being ushered through the courtyard towards their rooms. Aragorn wondered how deeply the memory loss was affecting Éomer. He knew that the would have to have words with the horse-lord before he left Minas Tirith, and he could only hope that speaking with him would aid Éomer in healing his mind.

Aragorn turned to his wife and offered his arm as they slowly made their way back to their House. The other nobles that came to greet the King and Queen of Rohan also dispersed back to their respective habitats.

"He seems much changed," Aragorn murmured sadly, barely registering that their personal guards were following at a respectable distance.

Arwen did not look surprise but merely nodded. "I agree, Estel," she replied softly. "But it will take time for him to return to his former self."

Shaking his head, he placed his hand over Arwen's as it remained perched on his arm. "Still, it is good to see that he and Lothíriel are in better spirits." He paused, looking down at the wondrous profile of his wife. "Should I have a word with him? Perhaps it may help him along in his recovery."

The elven Queen agreed quietly with him. "Perhaps you should. Your past experiences and wisdom may aid him."

"I do not wish to seem presumptuous."

Undómiel laughed brightly. "Nay husband, nothing you do will be seen as presumptuous."

Aragorn chuckled. "Really? And what if I were to... Kiss you now, in front our guards?" He threatened.

She tried to appear affronted but could only smile serenely. "I do not have a problem with your displays of affection, Estel."

"You tempt me too much wife," he growled quietly, earning another warm laugh from his beloved. "Besides, I believe that your elvish sensibilities would be offended." His words earned him a sound smack against his shoulder.

Laughingly, they entered their private suite and found themselves together, alone. His official duties meant that he had not seen his wife for most of the day and his yearning for her grew to insurmountable heights.

Aragorn drew his wife closer to him, his stone-grey eyes gleaming against the candle-light. He peered into the infinite depths of his wife's own eyes and felt as if he was plunging off from the highest cliff into a bottomless star-filled lake... Into her soul.

"_Meleth-nín_..." Gently, he placed his battle-worn palm upon her forehead and brushed away the wavy tendrils of loose dark curls before pulling her flush against his chest as he did so. His calloused finger traced the delicate point of her ear and he almost smiled at the blush that bloomed across her high-boned cheeks.

"You have that look about you again, Estel," Arwen said, her eyes widening with anticipation.

"What look is that?" He asked quietly, his gaze growing more intense.

Arwen laughed suddenly, placing her free hands upon his cheeks before moving her ruby lips towards his ear. "The expression you give me when you wish to kiss me to make my knees tremble and give way," she breathed.

Smiling, Aragorn drew back. "Is it still there upon my face?"

"Yes; and it is glorious."

Her eyes fluttered as her husband's lips deftly brushed her own, leaving her alarmingly bereft as he pulled back for a brief second.

She resisted the urge to sigh with contentment when his full lips found her again in a kiss that left her trembling like a butterfly's wing from head to toe. "_Arwen_... _my love, my life, my heart_," he whispered softly against her lips.

The elven Queen closed her eyes as her husband slowly teased her with his mouth, his hands inflaming every line, contour and curve of her body as they wandered without restraint, making her feel deliriously heady and intoxicated all at the same time. Heart shuddering, knees trembling, she clung to him as though nothing else could save her from drowning in her joy. Immortality be damned... _This_, his love, was enough. It was enough to save her from sinking into grief and despair at the loss of her father and kin, gone into the West. It was enough for the enduring pain that would follow his death and her sorrow would pale in comparison to the love they now shared.

Her thoughts flew from her, soaring away as all the world seemed tofade and spiral from her grasp as she and her husband remained in their passionate embrace.

Yes. It was enough.

-

-

-

Éomer sank down into the nearest seat of their private rooms in the King's House; his body was nearly back to full strength but his mind... His mind was still the cause of much weariness. At night he found no rest, as frightful but unrecognisable images accosted him from all sides, giving him no quarter. In the day, the unfamiliar visions abated but still lingered at the back of his thoughts, never too far away to give him the peace he needed.

He sighed, rubbing his hand across his heavy eyes.

Moments later, soft fingers began to trace his temple and instinctively, he knew it was _her_. His wife. His beautiful, but strange, wife. A woman he did not recognise; a woman he found disconcerting for no real reason...

Without a word and expecting none in return, Lothíriel pulled his hand away from his face and began to massage his temples. The silky smooth pads of her fingers nearly caused him to groan with relief as they moved in slow but steady circles.

What surprised Éomer the most was the gentle, soothing kiss she delivered at the crown of his head. It was like a balm, reminding him of the first breath of spring upon the plains of Rohan. There was nothing behind it, no motive nor deception, save to offer comfort. And it served it's purpose well; slowly but gradually, he felt his muscles relax and his countenance grow lighter.

"Thank you," Éomer offered quietly as she finally stepped away from the chair.

Lothíriel gave no words of explanation, nor did she require any thanks. He could see that as clearly as the sun dawning on a new day, with the gentle smile she bestowed him. Her small palm cupped his bearded cheek for a brief moment before she left the room to change for the evening meal.

Watching her go, Éomer pondered the strange sinking sensation in his stomach.

-

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**Added Notes: **Again, thank you all those kind enough to review and give their opinion. Hopefully, you can see the gradual shift in Éomer and Lothíriel's relationship. Please do let me know if you think it is being rushed :) I don't want it to seem too unrealistic.

**- Translations -**

_Muindor-nín –_ My brother.

_Mae govannen _– Well met.

_Meleth-nín_ – My love.


End file.
